


Take Me Home

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Fix-It, Love, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 19:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 64,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4717160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He woke up in the arms of a man that made all of the troubles in the world go away. He was lovely, handsome, strong, and he was certain that he knew his way around a gun. He just couldn't remember the man's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Light spread through the room in warm morning rays through tall windows without panes. The sheets were crisp, white and soft, draped over his body along with a grey blanket on top of them. The room was silent and the world complied, giving the moment the justice that it deserved. Wrapped around him was a man that was warm and comforting, his arms snug but not constricting. The man’s soft breath tingled along the hairs of his neck and it brushed over him to the beat of his heart.

It was a fanciful description, and not one he would use after he woke up. Sherlock slowly drifted out of his personal realm of unconsciousness, but his eyes remained closed. The comfort of his surroundings made him believe that it was all just a fantasy his mind brought to keep him company during the cold nights.

When his eyes opened, however, they were wide and Sherlock jerked a little. A deep frown displayed on his features. From his perspective, all he could see was a glass separator that detached the room from a bathroom, a nice oval bathtub that lie underneath a ceiling shower head. He looked down and was confronted with the view of a lake, not twenty feet beyond the confines of the room. Even further, there lie hills on the other side of the body of water, with a few indistinct dots that might have been houses.

He was fully aware of the arms that were wrapped around him, but for the moment, he was too perturbed to even pay attention to them. He was frightened of what he might find if he turned around.

Sherlock pulled a sheet from his midsection and inspected the lightly tanned hand that was placed firmly on his abdomen. The fingers were callused, strong, but not rough. He wasn’t prone to angry outbursts, as far as he could tell. He turned just enough to look at the man’s face. He had mussed hair, blonde and peppered grey, and light stubble. He tried not to admit that he was strikingly handsome, but came to the conclusion that a man must have been handsome or charming in order to convince him to get into his bed.

With caution, he pulled his arm away from him and moved towards the edge of the bed, lifting his head off of the man’s hand. Sherlock managed to get off of the bed without making the man stir, his toes curling at the chilled slate floor. He took a moment to recognise that they were both naked. He knew this, but the reality of it was too odd to get a hold of. He looked around the room, seeking clothes, but found none. Were they somewhere else?

Sherlock toed out of the room, a wince on his face at the sound his feet made every time they lifted from the polished tile. Carefully he stepped sideways beyond the door left ajar, then licked his lower lip at the sight of the living room.

Two chairs and a sofa were arranged around a telly on the mantle of a fireplace. The setup was comfortable with nice muted tones that he found himself admiring for a second before he continued on his search for his clothing. Surely if he’d been drunk, he would have left them somewhere – but he didn’t recall getting drunk. It wasn’t common for him to get hangovers, but if he was so inebriated that a loss of memory was inevitable, he would wake with at least a parched throat or nose. The theory of drunkenness wasn’t holding.

Sherlock continued on through the room, turning over cushions for signs of alcohol or clothes, which he was beginning to miss. He sighed and stood up.

It was all so... hatefully neat. Yes, there was the occasional misplaced object, but that was all.

He noticed a coat tree in the corner of the room, which held his coat and scarf. Eagerly Sherlock rushed over to it and began searching his pockets for some clue, but all he found was a wallet. He retrieved it and frowned at the new leather, brown instead of the black he was used to. Did he pickpocket someone?

Flipping open the wallet answered the question. Immediately he noticed the identification card, which had his forced smile as a photo.

The date of issue was September 28th, 2018.

He inspected it further and swallowed at the clear signs that it was real. Sherlock put the wallet back and his gaze returned to the doorway of the room he’d slept in that night.

Where was he?


	2. Chapter 2

There was a panic in his breath as he continued to stare at the doorway. Who was this man that felt so content to take him in his arms? Why had he stayed the night here? What exactly did they do? How could it possibly be 2018, or later, as it could be? These questions whirled in his head as he looked back at the coat rack. A smaller jacket was beside his coat.

He fished through the pockets and produced both a phone and a wallet. The phone marked the time as November 16th, 2018, 7:20 a.m. In the wallet, he found the man's I.D. and found that his name was John Watson, a former captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps and Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Thirty-five years old.

Movement from the bedroom made him jump and he shoved the wallet and phone back into the jacket and retreated to another room. He couldn’t be expected to still be here after whatever happened the previous night.

He closed the door to an office as quietly as he was able. There was a desk in the left corner of the room, cluttered with papers, and on the other side were immense bookshelves and a reclining chair.

There was a note taped to a monitor with his name scribbled hastily. Sherlock stepped closer and lifted it, the tape separating from the glossy frame. Upon opening it, he read:

 

Ignore him if he mentions anyone else. When the time is right, pick the lock.

 

He furrowed his brow and tried to make sense of it. Who "he"? The man in the bed? And what lock? How the hell was he supposed to know the meaning of such a vague message?

His pondering was cut off by a distant call.

“Sherlock, where have you gone off to? Please tell me that Greg hasn’t taken you off on another case,” a man said. It must be John. There was the sound of feet against wood, then tile, then a refrigerator door opening. “If you want breakfast, you’ll have to decide what you want. I’m not getting into that struggle with you again.”

The familiarity in John’s voice struck him as odd. Clearly they were friendly, but how could he not know this?

Sherlock tossed the paper in the rubbish bin then put his hand on the doorknob. He had to find out more. He turned the knob and opened the door, peering out through the crack. He stepped to hide his bare body from sight.

The man’s head lifted and he turned to look in Sherlock’s direction. He seemed amused at the sight. “There a reason you look like you stole sweets, Sher?” His brow quirked before John turned again and cracked an egg, pouring it onto a pan.

He watched him act so carefree about this. It must’ve been routine. “Eggs would be nice,” Sherlock replied slowly.

“Good to know you’ve decided to eat today. You must be starving.” The tease in his voice told Sherlock it had very little to do with any eating habits.

His cheeks flushed a light pink and he stroked the door frame. He didn’t feel particularly exerted. His calves were sore, but he didn’t know why that would have anything to do with the night before. Perhaps he’d been running.

John grabbed the pepper shaker from a little nook of the counter and shook it above the eggs, humming a tune Sherlock didn’t recognise. Another glance back had him frowning. “Why are you hiding like that? Come here, I haven’t had a kiss yet.”

Sherlock wanted to protest, or ask for clothes, but he realised that he had no real reason to be modest after what they’d apparently done the night before. And whatever times before then. He was hesitant as he opened the door further and stepped through, his eyes cast downwards. He couldn’t recall a time where he felt so exposed, as if the man would laugh at him. There was no intimacy he felt for the man, so being naked didn’t feel cheeky or romantic at all.

The man’s breath caught and the eggs continued to sizzle as Sherlock approached.

"You're going to burn the eggs," he said, swallowing as he avoided John’s eyes.

John continued gazing at him until the words sunk in and his attention was turned back to the eggs. He took up a spatula and flipped the eggs before turning back to grin up at Sherlock.

John’s eyes were... blue? Grey? Some combination of the two. They looked so open and loving, and it almost blindsided him. He wanted to know what he’d done to earn that look. His smile felt expectant and Sherlock stepped in a little closer, stooping his head to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. It was unsure, and he was certain the man could tell.

The smile didn’t falter. “Just a chaste one? I brushed my teeth before I came out here.”

Sherlock frowned down at him and watched as John turned off the burner and moved the pan to another one so the eggs wouldn’t burn. He set down the spatula.

The man looked back at him and reached up, cupping the base of his neck with one hand and his jaw with the other. His eyes continued to bewilder him. He didn’t even have the wherewithal to react when John rolled on the balls of his feet and kissed him, brushing their lips together in this gentle… tease? Gesture? Sherlock swallowed hard and curled his toes against the floor when John’s eyes closed and the kiss grew firmer.

He froze, contemplating his options. He could pull away, but it’d arouse suspicion and make the man feel unwanted. He didn’t want that. John was gentle so far, and did nothing to deserve that feeling. He would just have to find out more about him – this. Sherlock resigned against him and hesitantly settled his hands on the man’s waist before he kissed him, slow and calculated. He’d never kissed anyone, especially like this. How was he to know how John wanted this?

A gasp left Sherlock at the hint of a warm tongue, grazing against his lower lip. He tried to act like he was used to the sensation, but it was passionate fire, and a moan escaped him. He wasn’t prepared for this. Sherlock pulled from him and looked away in the hopes of hiding the flush on his cheeks, the pink in his ears. “We should eat,” he whispered breathlessly. He could feel his heart skipping in excitement.

The man giggled and settled back on his heels with a nod before he gave a gentle pat to his jaw. “Okay. I haven’t made yours yet. Do you want to take a shower while I get on it?”

He nodded. “Yes, I’ll... do that,” he breathed. Feeling odd just leaving him like that, he pressed another kiss to his cheek and left the kitchen at a swift pace.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock leaned against the door once it was closed. He lifted a hand to brush his fingers over his lower lip. It almost felt just like it, but not as warm, not as affecting on his heart. Nothing had ever felt that way, yet it was obvious he’d delved into other things that could bring out that same feeling.

He dropped his hand.

Sherlock watched the lake with wonder, and left the door to walk up to a dresser on the wall adjacent to the windows. There was a picture of John in an intricately carved frame, but one of himself wasn’t there.

He turned the frame over and pushed the latches off before he could remove the felt-covered back, and the cardboard below it. The picture lay underneath with some writing:

 

Thank you.

 

Sherlock glanced to one of the night stands. There was a pen and notepad sitting there. He retrieved it and set the frame on the nightstand as he began to write the phrase. After a moment of looking between the two pieces of writing, he had no doubt that it was his own hand that’d penned this “thank you” on the back of John’s photo.

What could he thank him for? Other than that look in his eyes. Sherlock let out a frustrated breath and closed the back to the frame, returning it to its original place.

His hands moved to the silver knobs of the top drawer and he pulled them. The drawer contained an arrangement of socks. Very few of them were expensive, so the owners didn’t attend many formal events. He noticed how they seemed to bunch up on either side of the drawer, and one group seemed to be longer.

They were worn on two sets of different feet.

The next drawer down contained t-shirts and pyjama pants, with the same unspoken barrier present in the middle. In the third drawer was underwear, almost entirely boxer briefs. He frowned at the dark lace that was tucked in the far back of the drawer and reached to take it.

It wasn’t any sort of underwear he’d seen on a man, yet they were clearly not designed for a woman’s shape. He furrowed his brow and held it between his fingers, a deep temptation to throw them as far away from himself as possible. He didn’t want to touch some stranger’s knickers.

The feeling turned to utter confusion at the sight of a tag, which displayed the size – his size.

He didn’t know what to think, so he stuffed them back into the depths of the drawer where he hoped they wouldn’t be retrieved again, and shut it.

Sherlock pursed his lips and moved on to the last one, knowing he was taking far too long and that his eggs were already done. John might wonder what he was doing.

A stuttered exclamation of shock caught in his throat and he slammed it immediately, his eyes going wide. He clenched his jaw as a blush rose to his cheeks, and he stared out the window with determination. He wasn’t going to have a second look. It was far too embarrassing.

Sherlock looked back at the drawer in apprehension. Finally he just sighed and sat down in front of the drawer, the floor’s chill tingling at his skin.

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the silver knobs yet again and slowly tugged the drawer open, forcing his legs flat to the floor so the wood wouldn’t scrape against his knees and thighs. Inside it laid a riding crop, a pair of handcuffs covered in a smooth black cloth, several bottles of lubricant, and many lengths of rope. There were also a few long strips of cloth bundled up on the side.

He didn’t want to know.

He shut the drawer again and decided to take the shower John suggested. He could use the time to think. Sherlock groaned at the strain in his calves as he pushed himself off of the floor to stand and walked over to the bathroom. It seemed impractical to be separated by glass, but looking back to the bed, he could see the point of it. It could either be vulgar and voyeuristic or something sweeter, having the ability to admire.

He looked about the bathroom and noted a door. It made sense that another room would be present – the dresser was along a wall that protruded before the bathroom could end. He moved to the door and opened it. There were shelves with cleaners and tools required for general housekeeping along the left side of the wall. On the right there was a toilet.

A chuckle left him. That answered the question of privacy.

He closed the door and returned to the matter of bathing.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, he turned on one of the taps and held his hand out as rain-like water poured from the ceiling. It was freezing and he turned the other tap in hopes for some kind of balance. It took a second, but he began feeling warmth fading into the general temperature of the water. When it was comfortable, he stepped in and sighed at the sheer comfort that flooded him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and braced his hands on the wall in front of him so he wouldn’t fall if he found himself being lulled into sleep.

There was no good reason why, but he hoped that the fourth drawer’s objects did not reflect how either of them were treated. He wanted things to be good between them, whatever their bond was. He couldn’t fathom why he cared so much about the particulars. It couldn’t all be amounted to John’s eyes, or the way he seemed so familiar in his teasing. It was… the way his lips felt when they kissed. He’d felt awkward and was reassured with eager tenderness, and how delicate John was.

A soft sigh left him and he wondered where to go for more clues. There were still more rooms to the house, and the entire realm of what lie beyond its walls. He needed to find his phone and check for any other notes that might be lying around.

Why was there a note at all? Did someone anticipate this?

His thoughts were interrupted by the bedroom door opening. Sherlock’s head lifted and he gazed at the door, from which John entered the room with a smile on his face.

Modesty was in his bones again and he had to fight the panicky urge to shut the water off and cover himself with a towel. “Did you need something?” Sherlock asked, staring at the wall. He wished John would leave for a while, so he could get a grasp on this frightening new reality. He didn’t want to turn him away if they were more than what he thought.

“I was going to tell you that your eggs were done,” John said quietly.

He furrowed his brow, unable to make that out. Sherlock pulled away from the wall. “Can you repeat that? I can’t – the water’s too loud.” As he watched the man step beyond the glass, he realised he’d just invited him closer.

“I said your eggs are done.” John gazed up at him, some admiring interest in his eyes. “Can I help you?”

He nearly choked. Sherlock looked down at the porcelain upon which he stood. “I’m not sure I need help bathing myself,” he muttered.

“Do you want me to anyway?” the man asked, humour in his voice.

There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t appear as if he didn’t want him. John wasn’t to know that something had changed, whatever it was. “Yes,” he said, swallowing. “Please.” His back was tingling and he bit back a shudder. Sherlock looked away when John began to undress.

He tried to tell himself that there was no reason to be nervous, that he was allowed to do this. There shouldn’t have been anything wrong with it, yet it felt like a betrayal. John thought he was with the same person he was with not too long ago, and technically this was true, but Sherlock didn’t know him. He didn’t know how to act, he didn’t know what was expected... he didn’t even know how to kiss the man. And still John was stepping behind him, and he could look at his bare skin without consequence.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John whispered.

Sherlock turned to face him, but he didn’t meet his eyes. There was the distinct feeling of tears welling in his eyes. He was lying, and John was… nice. Beautiful. All the more reason not to take him.

John’s expression turned to concern and he cupped one of his cheeks, brushing his thumb across his skin. “I want your eyes on me, look at me...”

He met his gaze and guilt, panic, uproar swelled in his chest. John looked so kind. He was hesitant, but slowly he moved his hand to cup his jaw, and he smiled down at him in awe.

He took in a little breath and leaned in to kiss him, his movements clumsy and desperate, but the man responded so perfectly, it made his heart flutter. He decided he wanted him. A shocked moan erupted from his throat and John chuckled breathlessly against him. He felt the man’s hands on his waist and he settled his other hand in the small of his back.

Whatever he was doing, if it wasn’t right, John didn’t complain to him. Sherlock groaned in something of a whine when John’s teeth teased at his lower lip, and it only made him more eager to feel what the man wanted from him, with him. His breathing was shattered and ragged, and he felt his knees threatening to buckle beneath him to let him fall on the hard tub. He had to pull away.

Sherlock took his hands from him and stepped backwards, his heart hammering in his chest. His mind was only wanting to touch him, invite him, let him, whatever the hell that they ever did, he wanted it, and he couldn’t. “I thought I was going to fall,” he huffed, his hand on his own forehead as he tried to think straight. It didn’t feel right to do this to him. His sudden loyalty to the man’s emotional well-being was surprising and profound, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

John chuckled, biting his lip as he watched him. Where there was concern before there was only warmth now. “Do you want to wait?” he asked. “You must be exhausted, and I have to get ready for work soon anyway. I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to postpone this.”

He nodded and braced his free hand against the wall. “Please. If you continue to kiss me like that, I won’t be able to think.”

He giggled. “No need to flatter me. I’ll just leave you to it, okay? Just promise you won’t let those eggs sit on the counter all day, I want you to eat.”

Sherlock nodded again, and a smile tugged at his lips when John kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” he breathed.

“You don’t have to thank me, Sherlock,” John hummed as he stepped out of the tub. He grabbed one of the towels off of the rack and gathered his pants and t-shirt from the floor. He looked back at him and gave him a bright smile before he left the bathroom.

He shut the water off for a moment once he’d realised it’d been running for no reason, and he watched John collect some clothes from the dresser before the man left the room, shutting the door behind him. Sherlock sat down in the tub and hugged his knees. He’d thought that John leaving would stop him from being so distracted, but he was still unable to think anything other than touching, tasting, feeling.

Reaching forward, he put the plug in the drain and began running a bath for himself, lying back. He had time now.

His mind was warped during those kisses. Sherlock was starting to realise that he’d been close to crying, but he didn’t know why. He could have this if he wanted – he could call John back and ask him to give him everything, and yet he didn’t, though every inch of his skin was itching to be touched. He let his head rest on the edge of the bath and held his hand on his thigh, but he didn’t have any reason to stop himself.

A groaned sigh echoed in the bathroom and he closed his eyes as he curled his fingers around his aching cock, biting his lip as he gave an experimental squeeze. At first, he tried to think about someone else, but there was no point.

As he made long, languid strokes, he pictured John's face. He shook his head at himself when the expression was sweet – he couldn’t do anything with that, he was too sympathetic when the man looked caring. Instead he thought of him helping, touching, watching. His hands on him, his lips stopping at every focus point. He gasped at the thought of him teasing one of his nipples with his teeth just as he did his lower lip. He swiped his thumb across the head of his cock and jerked when he imagined it was his tongue.

He panted quietly, his mouth agape as he tried to think about how much better it would feel when John stroked him, paid so much attention to how he needed him. He wondered what the man uttered when he was close, if he blurted out sweet, stupid nonsense or if he growled.

“I love you,” he whispered to himself, to hear what it might sound like. It wasn’t right, but it was everything he had. He didn’t know if the man ever said it, but he knew it would make him whimper beneath him, above him, whichever – to hear him cry it out. Sherlock shivered and he whined “I love you,” and his hips jerked, pulsing as he pictured it.

“John,” he groaned, and he hurried his hand, stroking firmly. “John, just – hah!”

It was shivery. Sherlock’s eyes flew wide and a high, howled groan left him as he shook, spilling against his fingers, his own abdomen as the water splashed around him. He threw his head back and grunted in pain, furrowing his brow as sensitivity flooded through him, and he was forced to let go of himself.

He stared at the running water between his feet as he panted to catch his breath, an odd sense of focus making him realise how pathetic this was. Saying those things and thinking of a total stranger during those moments.

He should’ve been investigating, not... _fawning._ Sherlock shook his head and lie back gently now, swallowing.

It took a while for him to take back the self-critical statement, but his mind was clear and he was pressed to figure out just what the hell was going on. He’d wait until John left the house to look around more. If he could find his phone, maybe he could call Mycroft, ask him. His brother would believe him – he hoped.

 

* * *

 

The bath was slow and luxurious for a while, as he glided a lathered washcloth over his skin. Sherlock let his mind wander so he could find some peace, but all he found himself concerned with was his purpose. Here, in this place that he’d never seen in his life, waking up with someone wrapped around him.

When he was done rinsing the suds off of him he sat up, his hands between his legs as he wrung out the washcloth. He could think all he wanted but it brought no resolution. He reached forward and pulled the plug out of the bath before he stood, water trickling down his body everywhere it could reach.

He stepped out of the bath onto a beige plush section of carpet, reaching out to grab the other towel from the rack. He pursed his lips at the knowledge that John had likely heard him earlier, but he couldn’t bring himself to care now. If the man decided to tease him, he had no doubt that he would blush, but he wouldn’t defend himself. John was handsome, and he was desperate.

With the towel wrapped around his shoulders, he walked over to the mirror and examined his face. It didn’t seem any different from his general memory of what he looked like. He thought that if he’d lost years of his life he might shock himself, have hair salted with greys, but there was nothing. He smoothed his hand over the prickly beginning of stubble and concluded he must have shaved sometime the day before.

Sherlock opened the bathroom cabinet and looked for some hair product that would prevent his locks from becoming a frizzy mess, and he was confronted with an almost bare set of shelves. There were two deodorants, shaving soaps, hair gels, and finally, some light de-frizz pump. He reached for it and realised that it must have been his, as it was scentless and had very little hold. Sherlock frowned and held it in his hand, looking at the lower shelf.

There was an assortment of medicines, mostly expired, sleeping pills prescribed to John and one bottle of prescription painkillers for himself – acetaminophen codeine. It was empty save for two tablets, and had a dispense date in 2014. Why the hell was that still hanging around, and what had he needed it for?

He sighed and put it back before he pumped a small amount of the product in his hand and began threading his fingers through his hair. When he was done he rinsed his hands off and dried them on the towel, then hung it up.

When he looked through the dresser for some clothes, he realised how little a range of options were available. There were no jeans, no slacks, not even a dress shirt. Did John just grab undergarments? Sherlock stood up and glanced around the room, but there were no other doors he could have possibly missed. He left the room after putting on a pair of boxer briefs and left the room.

He was about to head to the other side of the house to see what must’ve been a really inconvenient closet when he noticed a door beside the bedroom. Sherlock opened the door and peeked in. It was pitch black. He felt along the wall beside the door frame and came across a switch, flipping it up.

The light above illuminated a walk-in closet with clothes hanging on either side. One of the people that used the closet was left-handed, given the arrangement of the hangers. He thought back, biting his cheek. John flipped the eggs with his left hand and held the pan’s handle with his right. He chastised himself for not noticing at the time, but he was too concerned with playing along at the moment.

Stepping into the room, Sherlock frowned at the entire arrangement. On the left side hung jeans, jumpers, a few plaid dress shirts, and a suit not tailored to fit the owner’s body. The shoes were in drawers, a few casual sets for running, and a pair that was missing – the ones that he was currently wearing. He looked to the other side and saw a glaring difference. Expensive and well-crafted dress shirts, suit jackets and slacks, and one lone pair of jeans amongst a few graphic tees. The collection of shoes contained two different sets of the same-styled dress shoes, the only difference being their colour. After that there was a pair of trainers, and a box of shoes that he presumed to have never been worn.

He took the box from the drawer and lifted the lid, his breath halting at the sight of sleek black pumps with a bright red underside and a soft beige sole. He stared at them with a furrowed brow and slowly closed the box without a word to himself, setting it back down in the drawer and shutting it.

He didn’t see them. There was no correlation to the knickers he’d seen before, because those didn’t exist either. Jaw tight, Sherlock snatched the pair of jeans from what must’ve been his side of the closet and took a shirt while he was at it, hurriedly dressing so he could get the hell out of there.

When he left the closet, he was tugging the t-shirt over his waist and looking around when he saw a mobile lying on the end table next to the sofa. He missed it earlier in his panic. Sherlock rushed over to it and grasped it up, unlocking it.

He knew how to unlock a phone that he didn’t know he had. He didn’t recall buying the phone or even seeing it in an ad. For that matter, he hadn’t any memories of John’s either, he simply knew it out of... muscle memory? Habit?

Flicking his thumb to flip through the pages of the home screen, he searched for something listing his contacts and tapped the icon once he’d found it. A list of five contacts displayed.

 

Dad

D.I. Lestrade

John

Mum

Mycroft

 

What he drew from this was that his parents were still alive, he was still in contact with Mycroft, and that he knew one other person that might be his friend. Sherlock licked his lip and called Mycroft, standing up as he ran his hand through his hair.

It rung out twice before the man picked up, and he heard his postured voice utter a “Sherlock.”

He closed his eyes and sighed in relief. Some familiarity. “Mycroft, thank god...” He looked out the window and bit at his cheek, trying to come up with some way to start all of it. He didn’t know if his brother would believe him, but he hoped, because he needed something. “Can you tell me where I am?”

“Given that it’s a Friday morning I would presume you are at home, though the question brings up uncertainty,” he man muttered. He heard typing in the background, as well as a few distant clicks. “Stay on the phone and I can tell you. Is there a particular reason you called, other than to waste government time?”

“You love when I waste government time,” Sherlock scoffed immediately, and laughed at himself. “No, I – I think I am home, but I don’t know where... where that is, Mycroft, can you help me?” His voice turned panicky at the end. He never thought he would depend on his brother in such a way.

The typing stopped and Mycroft’s voice got closer. “Describe the room you’re in.”

He swallowed. “There’s these large windows, and a sofa, and two chairs – all the furniture’s facing this fireplace and a telly. It’s... clean, and expensive, and ridiculously well-coordinated. Do you need more, or-“

“You’re standing in your own living room, brother dear.” The voice was smug, like he’d caught him doing something.

He went silent and closed his eyes, controlling his shaky breaths. It was frightening to hear it out loud versus the buzzing clues in his head that he tried to ignore. That’s why his clothes fit, why John didn’t ask if he was leaving, why there was a bottle of pills with his name on it in the bathroom cabinet. “There’s a... a man here, his name is John, and he made me eggs and he smiles at me like I’m the best thing in the world, and every time he kisses me I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack and – knickers, Mycroft, why are there knickers?” he asked in a shivery laugh. He realised that his brother probably wouldn’t know about the contents of his dresser and was probably disgusted to know, but he couldn’t help himself.

Mycroft didn’t say anything for a few moments, but when he did speak, he said “I need you to tell me the last thing you remember.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t – I can remember us as children, going to university, Mummy’s awful cake the time I switched the sugar with salt, I can remember Redbeard. I don’t have an inkling of what year I felt like it was internally, but I knew that it being 2018 was _wrong_. I can’t summon a ‘last memory’. It is as if... I got here on autopilot and suddenly it turned off.”

“I’m sending a car to you, and it’s going to take you to a hospital so you can take some tests. Would you like John to be there?”

“No, please.” He swallowed. “I don’t want him to know, I haven’t told him.” Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to think of someone he could trust with this, other than Mycroft. “Dad?”

“Our parents are in Hawaii,” Mycroft informed him. There was snapping and an indistinct mumble. “I’ll go with you.”

“Thank you.”

A soft breath came through the speaker. “I can’t recall a time you sounded so frightened. If I don’t accompany you I fear I may be overwrought with guilt – not a pleasant sensation. The appointment is at noon. I will meet you in front of the hospital.”

The call ended.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sat in the living room after the phone call, staring at the lake and eating his eggs. He needed to touch it, bathe in it, just to make it feel real. He wondered how many times he and John went out there and just watched it with the hills, talking.

He’d put on the pair of trainers from the closet just because he didn’t want to change his clothes, and he didn’t know what these tests included. Sherlock couldn’t get any sort of brain scan or blood tests done because he’d eaten recently, and they would likely have to make a separate appointment regardless.

Hugging his knee, he felt worse that this was all real. He was real, but he wasn’t himself, and John knew the person that he was when he knew everything. How did he treat this man? His... lover, boyfriend, partner, whatever they called each other. He wanted to believe that he could bring himself back and that John could have him without ever knowing he left.

He didn’t know what he did for a living. He inferred it was related to the Detective Inspector in his phone, which might just be the Greg that John mentioned when he first called him that morning. It must have paid well too, for this house to exist. Of course John contributed – being a doctor was nothing to be humble about, and the pay reflected it depending on how good the person was at specific things.

He reached for his phone again and started to scroll through his texts with John.

 

[15 November, 2018]

Bath. –SH

_Already took a shower._

I’m not concerned with your hygiene. –SH

_Oh, Jesus Christ. I’m at work._

That doesn’t answer the question, John. –SH

_You didn’t ask a question, though, did you?_

Bath? –SH

_Smart arse. I’d like one but I don’t want to have to mop up the floor. After a point you don’t exactly know how to be slow._

_Not that I mind. Because I don’t._

I can practice holding my breath instead. –SH

_God damn it. Stop doing this to me, I have very official things going on. Doctor things._

Doctor things? –SH

_Very important doctor things that shouldn’t be interrupted by me leaving because you got me thinking about your lips again, you twat._

I like when you try to insult me. –SH

Fine, no bath. I have an idea. –SH

 

He frowned at the last text and he was about to scroll up to read from earlier times, but the honk of a car stopped him. Sherlock got up and carried his plate over to the kitchen, setting it on the counter beside the sink. He wondered why John made such a big deal about him eating.

Another honk made him rush to the entry way and Sherlock took the remaining set of keys from the hook beside the front door. With another glance to the house, he opened the front door.

The light outside was blinding. Sherlock squinted in the hopes of adjusting, but it was painfully slow and hurt his head. He closed the door and looked at the key ring. It was very simple, just a car key and one that must have belonged to the house. As he fumbled to lock the door, twisting the key in the lock this way and that, he was silently thankful that he didn’t have any other keys to try. When he turned the key clockwise, he heard a click and turned back to face the front yard.

He didn’t have enough time to admire it. Sherlock watched his feet as he stepped along flat stones placed over dirt and grass, which must have sunk into the earth a few centimetres since they’d been placed. He saw a little white lawn setting towards the front of the yard, with two chairs that had light blue cushions, and there were a few rows of flowers in along the side of the house – and then he met pavement, and his foot fell more than he thought it should and it was in the middle of a yelp of shock that he realised he was stepping off of the kerb.

He cleared his throat and made eye contact with the driver, who didn’t hide his amusement. Embarrassed, he went to the car and opened the door, sitting down on the black leather. He shut the door a little too harshly and swallowed.

Sherlock didn’t have to tell the driver that he was ready to go, the car just started to turn around. The road beneath them was old and the paint was faded and cracked – rarely travelled save for the occupants of the house.

With the house passing him by, he leaned to the other side of the car to look at the scenery about them. It was so beautiful, green, with trees planted every which way without being just for decoration. A lot of it felt real in comparison to some streets he remembered. At night he could barely sleep because of the cars that blared outside his room, the lights that could go flashing by. It was better when they moved away. Their mother began earning more money after publishing essays on theories, as he understood it, but he thought that the choice wasn’t just opportunity. Both of their parents realised how strung-out the city made them and thought that their children might like it better further away.

It was probably why he lived in a similar place now. Maybe he wanted to be more involved with John.

He looked away from the window and for ten minutes, he was silent through the ride. After a point the road looked more tended-to, and then there were houses and businesses, street lamp posts, and then there were more people as they kept going.

The car began to slow and Sherlock thanked the driver when he came to a full stop. He opened the door and clambered out, walking around the car to step up on the kerb. One look at the sky told him it was going to rain. It hadn’t looked like that back at the house – home, he said to himself.

Most people were either walking to or from the hospital entrance, but even so it was difficult to find Mycroft. Eventually he did see his brother at the top of the steps, just gazing back at him. His brother let him struggle to find him rather than wave a hand. Sherlock ran a hand through his damp curls and walked up the steps.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” Mycroft said stiffly. His back was ramrod-straight and his hand rested on the handle of an umbrella. “You’re underdressed. You don’t often stoop to civilian clothing.”

“Can you even say that anything for me is the usual right now?” He tried to sound like he was joking.

“No, but it does lend me to think that you believe you’re still in your teenage years.”

“Mycroft, I’m thirty-two years old, I’ve no business walking around with black nail varnish,” Sherlock scoffed at him.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at him.

“What?” he asked.

“You remember your age at least.” He blew out a slow breath and gazed at the sky. “Let’s not dally, brother dear, I’m on borrowed time and would like to make it home before dinner for once.” He turned from the steps and walked towards the entrance, pushing open the door with the tip of his umbrella before he stepped in. Sherlock followed with a frown.

He watched his brother closely as he bit his cheek, and after a minute of walking down the halls, he wished he had brought his coat. Mycroft stopped in front of a group of lifts and pressed the top button.

Sherlock continued looking at his brother, even when the man glared at him to stop it once it began making him uncomfortable. The doors to the lift in front of them opened and they stepped in. There was no one else inside.

“Why are you staring at me?” Mycroft demanded as he hit the button for the fourth floor. He refused to look at Sherlock for as long as he gawked.

“You look different.” Sherlock furrowed his brow and focused on the doors in front of him. The lift took a second to move, and he gripped the bar at the sudden jolt.

Mycroft pursed his lips and glanced back at him. “As do you. You need to be specific if I’m to have a proper answer.”

He smiled wryly. How much had he missed, he wondered? “You have someone making you dinner and you are not nearly as annoyed as you usually are when you see me. How long have you been married?”

His brother swallowed. The look of concern in his eyes told him he should remember.

Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Was I there?”

“Yes,” came the stern reply.

“And it was... beautiful?”

“He thought so.”

He nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose now. There wasn’t a moment he could spend without being reminded of the hole he had in his memory. “Does he treat you well?”

“We need to fix this.”

“I know.” Sherlock took in a deep, shaky breath and nodded again, opening his eyes when he felt he wasn’t at risk for tearing up. If only wanting things could make them happen.

They stepped out of the lift when the doors opened and Sherlock followed Mycroft as he walked. He heard him making some exchange with a woman at a desk, heard her ask who they were there to see, but he wasn’t paying attention to the details now. It was a retreat.

When they sat to wait, he pulled out his phone and looked through his pictures. Most of them were of John, smiling or doing something inane. There was one of him smiling with his ruffled hair taken at a time when the sky went orange, and the man looked so happy it hurt him.

He was sitting there in a waiting room of a hospital trying to control his breaths because he didn’t want his brother to see how scared he was. If not for him... he would be doing the same thing. He couldn’t imagine a place where he did feel comfortable openly weeping. Sherlock swallowed and put his phone away so he didn’t have to see John again for the moment.

It was a few minutes until he was over it, and though he knew that Mycroft saw how upset he was, he didn’t say anything. For that, Sherlock was grateful.

“John needs to know,” Mycroft said quietly. He didn’t look happy saying it. “He’s far closer to you than I am, and he would know better what you’ve done recently. I can’t fathom why I-“

Sherlock groaned at him. “You know why. If you woke up next to your husband with no memory of your time together, would you tell him? Could you? Now I can’t exactly wrap my head around the idea of you and engaging in sex, not to mention monogamy, but I do think that there must be some element of love in it, yes?”

He nodded stiffly.

“Then you tell me that you could watch him feel that towards you and willingly admit that you can’t remember what got you there.”

Mycroft let out a sigh, and that was all the answer he got. A few minutes later a nurse came out and called for Sherlock. He stood up and they both followed the nurse down the hallway, a standoff-ish silence between the brothers.

“I need you to take off your shoes and stand up against this wall,”  the nurse said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear before she tapped a section of the wall.

Sherlock frowned at her as he bent over and tugged off his trainers as neatly as he could. This seemed awfully childish, but he complied and stood against the wall. The nurse reached up and tried to see where the top of his head was, standing on her tip-toes until Mycroft decided to cut in.

“It reads one-hundred-eighty four centimetres,” his brother said. His lips were curled in amusement despite the situation, and Sherlock tried not to giggle.

“Thank you.” She looked away from both of them with a hint of an embarrassed blush as she tapped the scale. “Stand on this, please.”

He walked over and stood where he was told, though honestly at the moment he couldn’t care less what his weight was. They were here to figure out what was wrong with his head, yes? What did it matter?

“Seventy-nine point five kilograms,” she read off, and Sherlock furrowed his brow.

Staring down at the number, he cocked his head and tried to remember what he thought he weighed. He looked back at Mycroft. “Is that right? I thought it was lower,” he said.

“I’m sure this is something you can discuss with John later,” Mycroft muttered. “I cannot say I am surprised, however. You were underweight for a length of time and it’s comforting to know that you will not waste away while I am not looking.”

Sherlock laughed at him and went to put his shoes on, but the nurse was already walking away. They were led to an examination room and he sat up on the padded table while she pulled up a chair to the computer and logged in.

“Do you smoke?”

He started to answer, but realised he had no idea what the answer was. “I used to, but I can’t say I have recently. Mycroft?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

The nurse looked back at them with a raised brow and then went on to the next one. “Do you take any recreational drugs?”

“No,” Mycroft answered.

“Drink alcohol?”

“Not often.”

“Are you sexually active?”

“Ye-“

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. “I can answer that for myself, thank you,” he muttered with a warning tone in his voice. He didn’t know how he wasn’t pink in the ears at the moment. “Yes.”

“Can you give me an idea of how often you engage in sexual activity?”

“Ah... give me a moment.” He leaned over for a moment as he pulled his phone from his pocket and began scrolling through his texts with John. He didn’t have time to read them all through, but they were certainly interesting, and some of them made him want to shrivel into a little ball. “I would say almost every night of the week. With the same person, obviously.”

“Obviously...” she echoed. The nurse stopped typing and cleared her throat before she stood up. “Doctor Thomas will be with you in just a mo’.”

Sherlock sighed in relief when the nurse left the room. Knowing Mycroft, he expected to hear her say “Doctor Watson”. He was grateful that his brother didn’t decide to manipulate him into a situation like that. “Can you tell me something about him?” he asked softly, a few minutes later. “Anything.”

Mycroft shifted in discomfort. “You and John were introduced by a mutual friend and shared a flat together until you moved to your current house. As I understand it, you believed he was... witty, and somehow intelligent.”

“You don’t see that as well?”

“I can’t claim to be as familiar with him as you are, Sherlock.” He sighed and tapped his fingers on the handle of his umbrella. “I also recall you saying that you thought he was handsome. Though why you would tell me is beyond my comprehension.”

Sherlock smiled to himself. “Maybe I was proud. He is... nice. Gentle. I don’t know anything else, but I do know that I want to protect him.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was staring at the tile floor when the doctor came into the room. He didn’t pay attention and lost the moment when he was greeting Mycroft, whom he supposed the man had as a patient before. It made sense – Mycroft would take only the best, and only the best would do for his dear brother.

“So, what are we here for today?” Dr. Thomas asked, pulling up the backless swivel chair so he could sit in it. He stooped to make eye contact with Sherlock, who only paid attention when he was finally addressed.

He looked at the man for a moment. Receding hairline, smile lines, crow’s feet. He couldn’t have been older than fifty. He seemed genuine; he decided to tell him the truth. Sherlock wrung his hands and said, “I woke up this morning and I couldn’t remember how I got there.” After licking his lip, he added “And I don’t know what year it is in my head, but I didn’t believe it when I saw the date. I’ve gained weight, I’ve gotten into a relationship with – with someone, and I somehow know how to work a phone that I don’t remember getting.”

The doctor looked up at him for a while and blinked a few times, taking it all in. “So you’re experiencing some memory loss... can you tell me the date? I know you said you looked, but I need to see if you can remember.”

“It’s the 16th of November, year 2018, a few minutes after noon, I should think.”

He nodded. “Okay, that’s good.” Dr. Thomas swivelled over to the computer and looked at what the nurse had written down before he opened a new document. “You first noticed your memory loss this morning? Can you tell me what was different?”

Sherlock pursed his lips in a wry smile and took in a breath. “I woke up and I thought I was still dreaming. It was... well, very dreamlike. I had – tell me, doctor, what are your views on homosexuality?”

The doctor quirked his brow. “I’m guessing this is important.”

“It decides whether I leave the room and find someone else.”

He laughed softly and shrugged. “My personal preferences aren’t supposed to affect the way I handle my patients, but if you must know, I’m fine with the idea. Please, continue.”

Sherlock visibly relaxed. “I woke up with a man wrapped around me. I was in a room that I’ve never seen before in my life, and it was... stunning, really. My first thought was that I’d gotten inebriated, but I was neither suffering a hangover nor experiencing any dehydration. I got up and left the room, attempted to piece it together, and when the man woke up I hid in the office. I didn’t know if I was still expected to be there, and I didn’t want to have a confrontation while I was still trying to figure everything out.” He bit his cheek and rubbed his jaw in thought. “In the office I found a note with my name on it. I believe it was in my handwriting.”

“Do you remember what it said?”

He nodded. “It said ‘Ignore him if he mentions anyone else. When the time is right, pick the lock.’ I don’t know what it meant.”

Dr. Thomas pulled away from the computer for a second with a frown. “That does seem odd, and... _extraordinarily_ vague. But if it was your handwriting, then those instructions must’ve meant something to you at some point. Did the man say anything to you, or did you manage to get out without him noticing?”

Sherlock shook his head, and laughed. “No, that’s the odd part. He knew me, he asked what I wanted for breakfast, and he-“ He glanced at Mycroft, who was uncharacteristically silent through all of this. It was odd talking about these things in front of him. “He kissed me. And a while later when he left for work, I looked around the house. There are clothes that fit me, and I was starting to think that I lived there when I called my brother.”

The doctor looked over at Mycroft, who gave an acknowledging nod. “Do you know who the man is?”

Mycroft hummed as he tapped his fingers. “Sherlock has been in a romantic relationship with John Watson – the man he describes – for approximately three years.”

Sherlock swallowed and the doctor returned to the computer. “Did you notice any other symptoms when you woke up, Sherlock? Even if it seems unrelated, it’s important to note.”

“I did notice that my calves are sore, but that’s it. I hardly think that muscle strain could be a symptom, but as you said...” He sighed.

“Do you remember any accidents, trauma, or pain?”

“No, none at all.”

“Have you noticed any intermittence, or is the memory loss constant?”

“Constant.”

The doctor licked his lip and nodded as he moved to another page. “Okay, I’m going to ask you some questions about your general health and we can move on to some cognitive tests, do a physical exam, and then we can schedule an appointment for some diagnostic tests. Sound good?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I’m going to give you a name and an address. After I’ve said it, I want you to repeat it. Remember it, because I’m going to ask you to repeat it in a few minutes. John Brown, 42 West Street, Kensington.”

Sherlock blew out a breath. This was going to be boring. “John Brown, 42 West Street, Kensington.”

“And what’s the date?”

“Again? It’s the 16th of November, 2018.”

“Can you tell me something that happened in the news recently?”

He pursed his lips in an effort to think. “I don’t pay attention to the news. Often it’s meaningless drivel. There was... something about gay marriage being legalised a while back.”

“That was about a year ago.”

“I said it was a while back.”

“What was the name and address I asked you to remember?”

_“John Brown, 42 West Street, Kensington...”_

 

* * *

 

It was about an hour later when he was finally able to leave the hospital, after being dragged through a long series of questions that made him feel like the test was meant for idiots – but the doctor was only being thorough, and it was fair to think that someone who had problems with their short term memory wouldn’t be able to retain all of it. He was just tired now.

Mycroft and he stood at the entrance of the hospital, and he had no doubt that his brother was staring him down from the back. It was pouring outside.

“I’ll admit my first thought was that you had relapsed, but you are as linear as you are in any other situation,” Mycroft muttered as he unfurled his umbrella.

Sherlock smiled softly and held his hand out, pleased by the light sprinkle that met his skin. “I wish I were,” he whispered. “It would be so easy to recover from a moment of humiliation, not being strong enough to resist... how long has it been?”

“Two years.”

“I suppose I’m to believe this is John’s doing.”

“I wouldn’t so easily credit him in this case.” Mycroft sighed and stepped out once his umbrella was open. He looked back at Sherlock. “As much as I enjoy making light of your accomplishments to see your frustration, I will admit that you... seemed to take the situation into your own hands.”

Sherlock laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say you were proud of me. And for something I can’t remember... a damn shame.”

“Whatever this is, you will conquer it. Of that I have no doubt. But of course you need to be willing to take the first step.”

“Hm?”

“Tell John.”

He gazed at him and he looked crestfallen as he nodded. “I know, Mycroft. Just let me do it on my own time. I need... I want to be delicate with him.” Sherlock shook his head and ran his hand through his hair, biting his cheek. “You won’t tell him?”

“As much as I would like to... no.”

“And I have your word?”

“Yes, Sherlock.” Mycroft forced a smile for him. “I called a car for you. It’ll take you home. Perhaps you can use the time to think about what you’re going to say to him.”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock stepped out and stood underneath the umbrella for a moment. He didn’t know if this was permanent, or if it would happen again. For all he knew, he was dying. “Mycroft, I want you to know how much I appreciate you accompanying me.”

“Let’s not-“

“Don’t do that,” he scoffed. “’Let’s not dwell on it’? A moment isn’t going to kill you, and... well, I don’t know what will happen to me. All I know is that I was scared out of my mind – still am, in fact – and you stood by me. I _do_ appreciate that.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and avoided his eyes. “Well. Thank me by not making it an experience necessary to repeat.”

He chuckled softly. “I’ll give my best effort. Will you come with me for the appointment on Wednesday?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“You’re going with John.”

Sherlock groaned at him and flicked his shoulder before he walked away, hurrying to the car that stopped in the front of the hospital. It was the same one that had dropped him off. He opened it and hopped in as quickly as possible, shivering at the deep freezing feeling the rain left in his core.

He wasn’t feeling any more hopeful about the situation, but for once since that morning, he felt he could have just a touch of humour. He grabbed his phone from his pocket and sent a text to John:

 

Tonight I want you to kiss me until I can’t breathe. -SH


	5. Chapter 5

When he was at the house again, Sherlock sat on the doorstep for a while. The pounding rain was but a sprinkle here. It was peaceful, and serene... and any other synonyms that could accurately describe the feeling of being immersed in country silence and scenery. His elbows were resting on his knees and his fingers were interlocked, and he stared down the pathway with deep, slow breaths that managed to calm him.

John had yet to respond to his text. He didn’t mind. Sherlock was in no rush to see John, and although he did want the same things as he did that morning, with the same distracting, fervent strength, he knew he would have to tell him. It would ruin their night and he might have to work hard to get him to just hold his hand, but he couldn’t let John touch him without knowing that he wasn’t the same person that charmed him into it in the first place.

He began to shiver at the misty air and got up to go inside. Sherlock took the key ring from his pocket and turned it in the lock, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise. When he was able to open the door, he committed the lock’s working to memory so he wouldn’t have to struggle with it again.

Everything was slow for him as he walked through his living room. He toed off his trainers and left them next to the coffee table for the moment before he returned to the doorway of his office. Sherlock sighed at the sight of all of those books and chuckled to himself. He wondered if he would remember them or not. If all of these gaps only concerned John, maybe he would. Maybe he would only remember the ones he’d bought or read before the man.

Sherlock left the doorway and decided to go to the only other room in the house, to the right of the office, closer to the lake. Though the house was big, it was simple. He didn’t imagine that they entertained many people here. Was that John’s doing or his own? He couldn’t say anything about that, not with any certainty. He blew out a soft breath as he opened the door to the room and let it swing open.

It was so obviously his. There was a bookcase and a desk crowded in the furthest, left corner of the room. They were both cluttered with bottles of miscellaneous liquids and powders, measuring cups and spoons, beakers, vials, a microscope, pens, scissors, glasses – and papers scattered everywhere within that one corner. On top of the chair that was supposed to be tucked into the desk lay a violin with its bow. On the other side of the room there was a comfy little armchair and a lamp. Between the furniture there was a windowed door through which he could see a path that turned towards the back of the house.

As he stepped in, reaching to take the violin, his phone chimed. Sherlock furrowed his brow and he checked it.

 

_You know how to make me feel needed. I’m headed home now. Did you make dinner?_

Was he supposed to? That was something they probably agreed on a while ago. Sherlock didn’t have a job, he didn’t think, so of course he had time to make dinner. He bit his lip.

 

Not yet, will work on it. Sorry. –SH

_Don’t worry about it, I’ll just pick something up._

Thank you. I’ll make something tomorrow. -SH

_Okay. I love you._

Sherlock swallowed and sunk down into the arm chair, splaying his legs out. His heart raced in this eager beat, and he couldn’t help but smile. Earlier he hadn’t been so sure, and even though it became apparent that they had been together for a while, he didn’t expect this.

All the time he thought about John, about them together, he wanted it to be good. He wanted love and softness, to be kind and to feel like there was no doubt in whether he was wanted. Even his stupid, desperate sexual fantasies had included that. So of course he replied:

 

I love you too. –SH

 

And he hoped with everything he had that he wouldn’t hurt John.

Blinking away the tears in his eyes, he set the phone on the arm of the chair and stood up. Sherlock took up the violin in his hand and tried to position it so it felt comfortable under his chin, but it rubbed at the bone and he had to lift his head. This had to belong to him. His fingers had calluses that met the strings when he pressed on them.

He took a little breath and lifted his head before he let the violin rest on his left collarbone, then lowered his head. The rest felt better now. He held it with the strings parallel to the ground, leaned over to take up the bow, and swallowed as he tried to think of a tune to play.

There was nothing.

Sherlock remembered taking classes when he was younger. He learned how to stand, and he knew the names of notes, but there were no compositions that he remembered. With a frown, he set the violin down and began sifting through the papers on his desk. Chemical reactions, experiments, grocery lists, things to remember, but not a single sheet of music. He reached over to a folder on the shelf and found a single sheet titled “Bohemia”.

He put it on the desk and sat in the chair upright, taking the violin back underneath his jaw, the bow held delicately in his hand. The first notes he played were slow and he cringed when he couldn’t quite get it, but he was able to make it through the piece and make it sound decent.

Decent put a damper on his spirit.

He set the violin back down, resting against the bottom of the bookcase. Sherlock placed the bow on the desk and just stared uncomprehendingly at the music sheet. This gap seemed to be determined to take everything from him.

When his breath turned to panicked shudders, he clamped his hand over his mouth and told himself to shut up.

He would just have to do it again. And again, over and over, until he got it right, until he could convince himself that he was only out of practice. Because surely he had to be, to butcher a composition that was clearly written by his own hands.

When he was certain that he wasn’t at risk for an outburst of grief, Sherlock left the room and shut the door a lot harder than he should have.


	6. Chapter 6

He sat on the floor of the living room, directly in front of the windows. Sherlock was rubbing his knuckles together, tapping his fingers on his knee, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was shaking his leg.

_Blank. Empty. Lies._

He cocked his head and brushed his hair back. His movements were harsh yet controlled. If he didn’t hold back he might punch himself in the arm if he went to tug the sleeve further down. He might bruise his knee with that idle tapping.

Sherlock let his head fall forward and it thudded on the glass. He closed his eyes. John’s smile was the first thing he saw, and he couldn’t grow numb to the striking pain in his chest. He was going to make it go away, and John was going to stare blankly at him. He might laugh, tell him that it’s a good joke, then kiss his cheek.

He’d tell him to ask a question only he would know, and when he didn’t know the answer, it was going to hurt John. The man would get up and leave, and he would panic in another room. Sherlock would slowly sink away and he would find another place to sleep. John would call a certain amount of time after and try to ask him why, how – he would have no answers. That would probably be the end of it.

For some odd reason, Sherlock had picked him, he decided to live with him, they found a house and made a life together. He made all of these commitments and he couldn’t imagine doing it for anyone. The fact that he’d picked him was enough to want him to stay. The way he looked at him and how cheeky he seemed in earlier texts - that was about all he knew.

He felt selfish.

The door opened somewhere behind him and Sherlock stood, stepping away from the windows. He put on his brightest smile and turned, and there was John walking through their front door.

John was in his black jacket and a light dress shirt with some flimsy little vest, unbuttoned, hanging from his shoulders like it was ready to be tossed on the floor. He saw Sherlock immediately and smiled as he shrugged off his jacket, handing off his bag of food from one hand to the other. “Hey, Sherlock,” he said. His voice was as warm as his grin.

Sherlock went over to him immediately, half-tripping on the rug as he passed it. He took the bag from him, deaf to the sound of protest as he set it on the kitchen counter as quickly as he could. Then he was standing in front of the man, looking down at him and biting his lip. He could kiss his forehead and he wouldn’t have to stoop, nor stand on his toes. He wondered if he ever just walked up to him and pressed little kisses to his hair.

“Is everything okay?” John whispered. His eyes were wide and he gazed up at him. “You’re... doing your staring thing. Did I do something?”

Staring thing. He did this often. Sherlock let out a little giggle before he cupped both of his cheeks and kissed him firmly, his eyelids fluttering shut. “Tell me you love me,” he breathed as he parted from him. He pressed needy kisses along his jawline and let go of his face to wrap his arms around him, covering him as best he could. He was so warm pressed up against him like this.

The man chuckled in his ear and held his hips. He didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all. “I love you, Sherlock.”

He shut his eyes tighter and nodded into him. Sherlock stopped with his kisses and rest his head on his shoulder. “I love you too,” he breathed. He was doing his best to hold back the outburst that had been brewing in him the entire day. “I thought about you all day. And not... not as a result of this morning, it was-“ Sherlock sighed against him and breathed him in. His scent was comforting. He knew that John must’ve smelled similar to himself, there was only one body soap in the shower, but there were other things that made it unique. He recalled a documentary on sexual attraction where scents created subconscious attraction without even needing to be in the same room as the person who gave it off.

Of course he remembered that of all things, he thought bitterly as he held back a snarl. “It was how happy I was that you’re the man I woke up next to.”

John smiled and ran his hand along his back. He didn’t know where it came from, but it wasn’t the first time Sherlock had a sudden spur of sentimentality. He would tell him the most romantic things sometimes, in the middle of the night, during a sudden phone call, any time that fitted him. “Sherlock, I swear to god... one of these days you’re going to blow something up in the kitchen and I won’t be able to tell just by you loving up on me.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing...”

“No, it’s a very good thing. If it were anyone else...” He squeezed his hip and sighed. “Are you hungry?”

Sherlock wanted to shake his head, but he knew very well that he was. He didn’t want to have moments of empty silence with him. “A bit,” he conceded softly. He sighed and pulled away from him, though reluctant. As John went to hang his jacket up, Sherlock went to get their food.

In the bag were two containers of Chinese takeaway. He struggled for a moment with the folds and looked at the contents. One was chow mien with orange chicken – his own, he guessed, because it would have been his first choice if John had asked. The man knew what food he wanted... Sherlock shook off the guilty thought and unwrapped one of the sets of chopsticks. He settled into the corner of the kitchen as he watched John come up and take his food.

John pulled a fork out of a drawer and decided to lean against the counter instead of asking Sherlock to sit with him. For now, at least. “Do anything interesting today? Besides wanking,” he murmured into his food with a wink to the detective.

Sherlock froze, his mouth gaping. He’d thought of this earlier, why didn’t it stop him from being embarrassed about it? “You heard, obviously,” he muttered.

“It’s not the first time, you don’t have to get all blushy.” John beamed at him and took a bite.

“I didn’t expect to get... _confronted_ with it.” He stared down at his food and took his time with a few bites. It was divine. Of course it was, because everything with John just had to be so bloody perfect - he growled into his food. “No, I didn’t do anything of note.” Lie. He would have to rectify that later. “You?”

He shrugged. “Nothing you’d like to hear.”

He glanced up from his food. It was an opportunity to hear more about him, even if John did think it was tedious. What was tedious? He had no idea. “Tell me. Please, I’d like to hear it. Even if it’s boring.”

He frowned at him for a second. Sherlock never seemed to be very interested in anything other than the things he thought were funny enough to tell him. “Well, I had to check a kid for ADHD today, even though I told his mum that I wasn’t specialised in mental conditions...” John shook his head. “He’s just a kid. She wanted me to write him something to calm him down. ‘Be less of a hassle’, she said.”

“The more common medications for ADHD are stimulants designed to direct activity to other areas of the brain – if the child didn’t have the condition he would become abnormally focused, whereas people with a diagnosis will note calmness, more often than not. Not to mention the fact that some of the symptoms of ADHD could be used to describe the average child, there’s no need to force a diagnosis so early when the mother’s only concern seems to be removing the child’s sense of adventure and excitement.” Sherlock rattled it off without a thought. Once he was done, he just stared at his food. It was disturbing how inconsistent it was – or maybe it wasn’t, he couldn’t actually tell what he was missing until it came up. “On the other hand,” he added, “many people with ADHD, mostly those with inattentive symptoms, have become adults before becoming diagnosed because their symptoms were alike to a child’s. Impulsivity, insomnia, excitement, inability to concentrate, forgetting things, what have you. What was the conclusion?”

It took a minute for him to respond. “Nothing.” John sighed. “I had her step out of the room and asked him some questions. Sometimes parents try to coach their kids into answering things a certain way, and I needed him to be honest. He’s just...” There was another sigh and he ate some more, shrugging.

He watched his expression, biting his cheek. There was something that bothered him about it. “It upset you?”

“I wouldn’t say _upset_. I’m just frustrated that there are parents out there, more interested in throwing medical words at it instead of taking the time to know their kid. If she spent one minute just playing with him, talking...”

“She might know that there was nothing wrong.” Sherlock chuckled and grinned at him.

John frowned. He didn’t think that he said anything that really earned a smile. “What? What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing.” He sighed. He was half done with his food now, and his appetite wasn’t really strong after all of this thinking. He set it down on the counter. “Nothing, you are simply... good.” Sherlock gave a shrug. If John could stop making him feel guilty, he would be so happy. He might be able to enjoy his time instead of thinking about it all being torn out from underneath him. “It’s not a wonder I ever chose you.”

He quirked his brow and took another bite before he set his container down too. John crossed his arms around his abdomen and tried to rub the chill out of his bones. “Have you been thinking about that a lot?” he asked. There was obvious concern in his voice.

“Not... deliberating. Just listing the reasons. There are a lot of them.”

He chuckled, looking down at his feet. He needed to take off his shoes – Sherlock threw him off his routine. “I wouldn’t mind hearing a few... I mean, if you didn’t mind. I’m curious. I figured it was my arse.”

“No.” Sherlock realised he answered that too quickly. The truth was... well, he hadn’t actually seen his arse, or done anything else to it. The thought made him cough nervously. “I didn’t exactly factor in the things that make you attractive.” Blowing out a breath, he ran his hand through his curls and settled against the counter. “I think you’re kind. You’re so... soft, the way you handle me, it’s like I’m made of porcelain, I feel like I’m imagining it... And when you smile it makes me feel so magnificent.” He laughed at himself. “And your kisses are as if someone’s taken away my mind and put in this animalistic replica. It’s want, and need, but... somehow it’s still lovely. Am I making sense?”

John nodded slowly. He didn’t realise he was biting his lip. With a little breath, he walked over to him, accidentally nudging one of his feet when he tried to get close. “Do you think you could spread your feet a little?”

He watched him and he could feel his heart skip along in his chest. Sherlock just wanted to forget everything for a second and enjoy this, if he could let himself. He looked at the floor and spread his feet until they were shoulder-width apart, and then John was close.

The man’s lips were on his and Sherlock closed his eyes. It was gentle, slow, just how it was the first time. He settled a hand in John’s hair and let his breath shudder through him. Wrapping his other arm around his waist, he held him close, his toes curling against the tile. A gasp left him when John hummed and he couldn’t help but smile. It was amazing to know that he liked this.

His eyes shut tighter at the grazing of teeth against his lip, and didn’t dare fight it. Sherlock parted his lips and he tried to tease John, that stupid thing that made him needy, but he was caught shocked when it was the man’s tongue. He groaned in a way that almost sounded painful and shuddered as he held him tighter. John’s smile was teasing when he pulled away.

“Bed?” he hummed, tugging gently at the bottom of his t-shirt.

Sherlock found himself getting lost in his eyes. He didn’t have to wonder whether he wanted him, or if he cared for him, but he had to ask if he was trying to do this for the right reasons. He sighed at himself and muttered something about being stupid, his gaze falling down. “I’m sorry, John.” He hated himself for it, but he gently removed his hand from his shirt and stepped out from between him and the counter. “We have to talk.”

His brow shot up in concern, and it only served in making Sherlock feel worse. “What’s wrong?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and though it was difficult, he managed to keep eye contact with him. “I was going to wait. I wanted...” Sherlock swallowed. Already his eyes were watering, from all the upset he stored through the day. “I wanted to have you. I was going to try and do everything right and if I was lucky, I might have gotten away with feigning as if I knew what I was doing.”

John opened his mouth to speak, but there wasn’t a good response. He was so vague that he didn’t know what he was talking about, but he could tell that it was painful. “Sherlock, slow down. Do you want to sit, or...”

He shook his head. “If I wait even a second, I won’t be able to get through it.” He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, insults blaring in his head as he took measured breaths. “I want you to know that I was going to. If I could put all the emotions aside, I would have, but I would’ve hated myself afterwards. I don’t know where these notions of... of _caring_ come from, but they’re there. I don’t have any reason to love you but I want to, and John, it’s killing me that I can’t-“ Sherlock clenched his jaw as a whimper threatened to burst from him. “It’s killing me that I can’t give you the man you had yesterday.” His voice cracked and tears rolled down his cheeks. He was shaking with restrained sobs.

“What are you saying?” he whispered. “Did you...” John blew out a breath. “Is there someone else, or – Sherlock, please just say it, I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

Sherlock laughed and looked up at the ceiling, his breaths shuddering out of him as he gripped the edge of the counter. He broke out in hysterical laughter, stressed high-pitched giggles with a grin as he stared into the light.

He stared at him with indignity until the man’s breaths turned to hyperventilation, and then he began choking on his own saliva. He rushed over to him and cupped his jaw, forcing Sherlock to look down at him. “Hey – hey, calm down, breathe for me, Sherlock. Come on, just take a deep breath for me, can you do that?”

He nodded, but he continued wheezing.

_Pathetic._

“Sherlock, _breathe._ ”

He shut his eyes tight and tried to break the cycle. A gasped breath, a shuddered exhale.

“Better.” John stroked his thumb along his cheek and shook his head at him, sniffling. “You’re worrying the hell out of me, you big idiot...” He stood on his toes and brushed his lips against his forehead, closing his eyes. “Just breathe. It’s okay. Whatever it is, I promise that you’ll live through it, and we can work it out.”

Sherlock whined at him and held him close, his arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He felt stupid. If his brain could just work, he wouldn’t be going through this. He should be able to fix it. “I don’t remember you,” he whimpered out, burying his head in his shoulder.

“What do you mean?” He sniffed and started brushing his fingers through his locks.

He hated this. All of it. If this had to happen, he wished he woke up next to a bastard, he wouldn’t mind hurting them. “I mean...” Sherlock shivered and took in another deep breath. It didn’t help that all he could smell at the moment was John. “I mean I woke up this morning and I didn’t know who you were. I still don’t, and it hurts. I promise I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t, I-“

John hushed him softly. “It’s okay. I – just let me think, okay? Give me two minutes,” he whispered.

He didn’t like it, but he went quiet. Sherlock remained sniffling into his neck, but over time he began to calm down. It didn’t make it hurt any less, and he certainly didn’t have any hope, but for now at least he wasn’t going to pass out. “You’re a good doctor,” he mumbled.

There was a quiet laugh and he kissed his hair. “Thank you.” John blew out a long, withery sigh. “I’m not... I’m not going to pretend like I’m not hurt, or worried, or scared shitless, but – I’m not mad at you, love.” He rubbed his hand along his spine, shaking his head. “Next time please say what it is first. I don’t like thinking bad things of you. Doesn’t feel very nice.”

“I imagine.” He let his eyes close. “Though if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t know if I was unfaithful,” Sherlock offered, then pursed his lips. “Joke. Sorry.”

“Not the first time you’ve said something totally inappropriate,” John said with a wry smile. “Do you want me to let you go?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“You’re comfortable.”

He raised his brow. “Does that mean I’m fat?”

“No, just smell nice. And you’re warm.” Sherlock forced a smile for himself and gently squeezed him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was afraid of hurting you, and then I was... confused, for a bit there. You distracted me with kissing.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it was good. Just _new._ ”

John hummed. “I think we need to have a long discussion. There’s so many questions.”

“I know. I called my brother today and he took me to the hospital. I have another appointment on Wednesday, two o’clock. Would you come with me? That may be an obvious ‘yes’, I have no idea...”

“Of course, Sherlock.”

He smiled and opened his eyes so he could look over his shoulder. “You have a scar, right...” He quirked his lips as he pressed his fingers into his back, feeling over his shirt. He reached a dent and stopped. “Right here. I barely noticed earlier – kissing. Bullet?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Afghanistan, a long while back.”

Sherlock sighed softly. “I don’t like that. It’s sad to hear that you were hurt. I probably sound like a toddler at the moment, describing obvious things, but I’m simply observing. I may not... _know_ you, but there’s a big part of me that cares for you. I know I must have cared a lot to choose you as the person I wanted to wake up with every morning. Not only that – it was clear that you cared for me in the first moment. I don’t have all the reasons worked out yet.”

“It’s good to know. When I came home... you weren’t just doing that for show, were you?”

“It’s very difficult for me to pretend that I care.”

John laughed and rolled his eyes, patting his back. “Yeah, I know. You’re a bit of an arse like that. But genuine. It makes me feel better to know that you still want me.”

“I want you and your round little nose and knickers. By the way, what is it with the knickers? I have a feeling that I know, but...” Sherlock shrugged, biting his lip. “It’s just so odd.”

“Do you really want me to tell you? It’s to do with sex.”

“Sex doesn’t alarm me,” he muttered.

“How would you know?” He couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. “God, this is so awkward. I never thought I’d have to discuss my sex life. I can’t exactly tell you that it’s none of your business, because you were there, and... This isn’t going to get normal any time soon. I’m surprised we’ve been able to joke about it. Okay, I want to make it clear that it was your idea. Understand?”

“Yes...”

“You said that they made you feel sexy. Delicate, but confident. You liked putting my hands on your arse when you were wearing them.” John coughed and reached up to rub his forehead. “I don’t know, I can’t explain it well, and to be honest, it’s odd talking about this to you when my head’s telling me that you should know.”

Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. “We’re fading in and out of ‘normal’. Humour helped us get used to it, if only a little.”

“You’re still brilliant.”

He pouted. “You think so?”

“Oh, yeah. And wise. It’s annoying sometimes. You make me feel like an idiot and I used to get all flustered about it.”

“Your chance to get back at me, I suppose.”

“I guess. Not really fair, though, is it?”

“I think we’re far past fair.”

John sighed. “Yeah, I know. I love you. You don’t have to... say it back, I just want you to know.”

He swallowed and licked his lip. He didn’t know what to say to that. John deserved to hear it too, but it wasn’t exactly the same. “I care about you. Will that do? I don’t... I want to grow into saying that. It wouldn’t be good of me to make you think that things are the same when they aren’t, but I don’t want you to feel dejected either. I think if I told you that I loved you now, you would doubt me – and I don’t want that. So can you let me say that I care about you?”

“Sherlock...” He sighed again and squeezed him tight. “You think way too much. Yes, of course I will let you say that. I know it’s probably confusing. I’m freaked out, yeah, and I’ll admit it feels like I’m choking on my own heart at the moment, but I’m more concerned about your head than I am about us. You’re still here, and I think we’re okay. It’s just weird right now.”

“And you’re all right with weird?”

“I picked you too. Bit shite of me if I decided to quit now.”

“But understandable.”

“I’m here whether you like it or not. Okay?”

He beamed. “Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I care about you.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning there is a reference to an alternate scene which shows Sherlock's reaction if things had gone slightly differently. There is no more to this scene, I just thought it might be interesting to see.

Sherlock and John stood in the kitchen, still wrapped around each other, and it wasn’t awkward for a moment. He felt his body was accustomed to the good doctor, and the man knew how to treat it. He couldn’t say the same for John. His eyes were open and he stared at the kitchen floor, his breaths slow and calm, but morose. He knew this was only the resolution to the smaller problem. Only now could he admit it.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” John whispered in his ear.

He felt his lips on his neck again and a pleasant shiver ran along his skin. He wouldn’t be getting used to that soon. “I have an appointment.” The argument wasn’t a logical one. He knew it. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to...” Sherlock sighed. There was no good reason. “Yes.”

“You agree?”

“Does it matter?” He smiled grimly to himself and squeezed his arms around him before he slowly pulled away, standing up straight. Sherlock had to stretch; being hunched over like that had put a slight kink in his back. “If you’re my kind of man – and all evidence leans to the idea that you are - you’d just drug me. I’d respect that, I admit it. I’d probably know, and I’d tell you that, but I’d take it anyway. We might as well save ourselves the guilt and betrayal. I’m so tired of being emotional, had enough of it today,” he whispered, holding his hands out like he was waiting for handcuffs. His hands dropped to his lap again just as quickly. “Take me where you need me. I’ll go.”

John looked up at him and smiled sadly as he reached up and brushed a lock behind his ear. “Thank you. You’re not usually so cooperative.”

He grimaced and looked away from him. “I couldn’t find a logical reason. If I’m dying and there’s a way to stop it, then I need to do what’s necessary to figure it out as quickly as possible. And... I know you’re holding back from panicking because you don’t want to upset me. It’s in your face, don’t ask how I know, I don’t know how to explain it further.” Sherlock let out a soft sigh and stepped forward to kiss his forehead, then walked out of the kitchen. “Call Mycroft. Let my associates know, if there are any - only the ones that give half a damn. I don’t care about the rest,” he muttered as he went to their closet. There had to be a bag somewhere.

There was a moment of silence before he heard John’s voice again, but it wasn’t addressed to him and he didn’t care about listening. Not worth the effort.

Sherlock looked at the clothes and ran his fingers along them before he decided a suit was pointless. They wouldn’t force him into a dressing gown for however long he might stay in whatever hospital they put him in, but he wanted to be comfortable. He groaned at the memory of the last time he stayed in a hospital – the last time he remembered in any case. The feeling of humiliation came back clear as day. Why couldn’t he have forgotten all the unpleasant things?

Life was hardly ever that kind, he supposed as he reached up over a shelf and struggled to grasp the handle to a suitcase. He brought it down steadily, bracing a hand underneath it before he set it on the floor and knelt beside it. Sherlock felt around the edge of it until his fingers crossed over a zipper, and then he pulled it open. When he opened the flap, the suitcase was almost entirely empty.

In one of the pockets there was a small, thick envelope with “Cornwall 2017” written on the back of it. It was his own handwriting again, no doubt describing photos that were inside. He licked his lower lip and opened it slowly, peeking inside. The first photo, while obscured from full view, was clearly of a landscape. A cliff before the ocean. Sherlock licked his lip again and set it down in his lap, gazing at the back wall of the closet. It was just a mirror and a little short dresser with odds and ends tucked away within it.

Looking now and taking time that he should be packing for the hospital, or saving them. Delayed gratification was difficult, and while sometimes logical, it was frustrating. Sherlock huffed out a breath before he closed the envelope again and shoved it into the suitcase again, then stood up. No need to think about it anymore.

He grabbed t-shirts from the hangers in the closet and set them on top of the dresser for the moment before he left the closet to go to their room. Sherlock searched through the dresser in there and collected some of the clothes that he knew to be his size: a few pairs of pyjama bottoms, pants, more t-shirts. He’d gone through the drawers methodically and now was left with the fourth one. There was no reason to look, but he did anyway.

It was still uncomfortable to face these things, but it was better now that he knew they were used in a romantic relationship, rather than... a heartless arrangement, he supposed. He would have to get used to them in order to start seeing the appeal from an objective standpoint. Surely he enjoyed it, so how did he get there? After swallowing sharply, he added a bottle of lubricant and one of the strips of cloth to his bundle of clothes. He shut the drawer with his leg and left the room without another thought to analyse himself.

When he left the room, John was still on the phone with Mycroft. He was arguing with him, and it sounded heated. He caught the words “idiot” and “endangering” before he decided that it wasn’t a good idea to step in. Sherlock didn’t know enough to defend either of them.

Back in the closet, he took the shirts from the dresser and sat, folding things and gathering them. Normally such organisation was tedious to him, but he was running on autopilot. There weren’t any thoughts in his head, no emotions, just a task.

Five minutes passed before the closet door squeaked further open, and Sherlock didn’t look up to acknowledge John, but he knew he was there. The man stepped closer to him and he wanted to tell him to back away. It was always uncomfortable when people watched him work. Had he gotten over that, or was it still there before that morning?

“Mycroft’s car will be here in a short bit. He’s driving himself this time.”

“He’s going to crash the car. Practice keeps the reflexes keen,” Sherlock muttered absent-mindedly as he rolled up a shirt and stuffed it into a little crevice between some other stacks of clothes. He’d hidden the lube and cloth in another pocket.

John let out a sigh and sat down somewhat close to him, his back against the shelves. It dug into him, but he could stand it for a while. “You’re not packing anything for me?” he asked. There was a weary humour in his voice.

“They won’t let you stay at all hours unless you’re a patient. Or if they do, you have the free will to leave, shower, change and sleep.”

He nodded slowly, then let his eyes close. “Is there really nothing you remember? Nothing about me?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay.” His voice cracked.

“Don’t do that.”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed and pulled away from the suitcase, sitting back on his ankles. “I don’t know how to help. When I said ‘you’re a good doctor’, that’s my perspective. I _think_ any good human being would attempt to calm down their loved ones from passing out. That’s not to take away the credit from you for helping me, I’m simply saying... I’m not equipped to do it. I don’t know if I’m a good person, there’s several things about me that I would say for certain aren’t good traits, but I do know I’m not the person you want when there are emotions in the air.”

He smiled a little and nodded again, interlacing his fingers in his lap. “You’ve said that before. Not in those words, but... I think you said, ‘I want to help, but lack the knowledge. Make me help.’ And you let me tug your arms around me like a ragdoll.”

He chuckled to himself. “That sounds like something I might say, yes.” He groaned and looked at the ceiling, rubbing at his eyes. “Ignore me. Not at my best at the moment. Big emotional outburst, shutting down for a while so I can get over it. I might be better if I hadn’t been upset earlier, I have no idea.”

“You like describing your brain.”

“Do I?”

“Oh, sure. Not... not all of it, and I don’t know why that is, but there’s parts of it. I think it’s just because you want me to understand that I’m not doing anything to cause you to act in a certain way. I guess that’s still the same.”

Sherlock hummed in response and blew out a breath before he grabbed another shirt, rolling it slowly. “I hate being emotional.”

“I know.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I know,” John whispered.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” he asked, quirking his brow as he packed the shirt into the suitcase. “Is there a point in me talking or do you know everything that I’m going to say before I can speak it? And that’s quite a feat, because I think much faster than I could possibly talk.” Sherlock waited a moment before he rubbed his thumb against his brow. “Forget that, don’t hold onto it, just numb and spiteful at the moment.”

He smirked to himself and shook his head, opening his eyes to look at him again. Sherlock looked... angry, almost, but he thought it was stress more so than actual anger. “You are a good person. That wasn’t my influence. Couldn’t have been, you didn’t start off giving a damn what I thought about you. Well... No, that’s not true. I think you did care, but you never bothered to change yourself. One of the things I like most about you.”

“That I’m an unabashed arse?”

“If you want to put it that way.” John took in a deep breath as he thought, then bit his cheek. “No, it’s not that. It’s just that you came as you were and didn’t bother to hide it. Bit different now.”

“Because I have the standard of what I used to be. The man that used to kiss you and hold you at night, make love to you and all of the other things.” A pink blush rose to his cheeks but he didn’t bother tailoring what he said in order to stop it from happening. “Imagine how crushing it is to know that I should be that, and that I can’t be.”

He pursed his lips and swallowed. That was what he must have thought the entire day. He sat up from the shelves and scooted over to him, reaching out to catch one of his hands as he continued packing clothes. Sherlock looked up at him and held an uncomprehending expression until he brought the back of his hand to his lips. “I still love you,” John murmured against his skin. “You know that. I said that.”

“You love what I used to be.”

“I do. But I love you now, too.”

“I’m not the same person. We might as well call the earlier version by a different name. Name him ‘Wilfred James Cottonmouth’ or something equally as ridiculous.”

He snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

Sherlock hummed, waggling his brow in more agreement than the doctor liked.

John pursed his lips again. "Hey, quit that shit right now. I mean it. This doesn't mean anything about the things you're capable of, all right? I don't want you to think that."

A tiny smile curled at the corners of his lips before it turned to a full, giggly grin. "You remind me of my father." He hummed, squeezing his hand a little. "It's a flattering statement, as I'm sure you're aware. And not one to be disturbed by, either. People tend to find lovers that resemble their parents in some form or another. Familiarity and comfort, when the relationship is good. When it's bad... I can't say for certain. An attempt to change the past with someone new, perhaps, which is never a good idea." He furrowed his brow and looked over at John. It wasn't a universal truth, but a very common one. He wondered who he was similar to in John's family, and hoped that it was his good traits.

John kept his gaze for a few seconds before he caught on. "Oh. Ah. Um, no idea. My mum? She's loving. But a bit smothering - maybe not, because that doesn't sound like you."

"You're trying to avoid answering with serious thought because you don't want me to be insulted," Sherlock mused. He was still smiling.

"I hate when you do that."

"Guess what you're thinking? Do I do that all of the time?"

"Most of the time. I think sometimes you try not to just to be surprised."

"We're doing it again. Talking about things that don't have any significance to avoid the reality." He sighed and looked down at the suitcase. It was almost done, save for toiletries. Those would go in the pockets. "Are you coming with me? Let me rephrase - are you staying? I know you will accompany me to the hospital."

“I’d like to.” John shifted so his legs were bent to his side rather than underneath himself. “I’d understand if it made you uncomfortable, and that’s not something I exactly want to do.”

“Since meeting you I’ve...” Sherlock pursed his lips. “I’ve kissed you and _wanked,_ as you so elegantly phrased it, professed my confusing affection towards you,and hugged you for about half an hour. I don’t see you sitting at my bedside as such a leap in comfort. And not to mention you’re all I have except for Mycroft – or so I believe – and he apparently has a husband to come home to.” His firm expression turned soft as he felt his heart turn heavy. It was so difficult to wrap his head around, but it would have been easy if he saw it develop. “Do you know if he’s happy? I can’t depend on the man to give me a straight answer, he never has been anything but a condescending twit.” Well, most of the time.

He sighed, but smiled a little. “Yeah, he is. We don’t see him all that often, but we never did. He smiles sometimes, and it’s not that forced civil ‘I want to smack the crap out of you’ smile.” He ran his thumb across Sherlock’s knuckles for a moment before he said, “I think Greg makes him happy. A lot happier than when he was alone.”

He furrowed his brow; the name was familiar. “You asked this morning if he – this Greg – had me on a case. Do I know him well?”

“Ah... ish.” John shrugged some, biting his cheek. “He’s a good man, and a friend, but he’s more of the background kind of person. Someone that you don’t necessarily need to talk to in order to know that they’re doing well, but there’s a lot of respect there, I think. I’m sorry, I don’t have the best insight to how you think of people, I’m just going off of what I’ve seen.”

He nodded in a bit of understanding and gazed at their hands with interest. John’s fingers were thicker than his, but shorter. “I have to finish packing some things. You should too, though you won’t need as much. I doubt I’ll be staying for days on end, but there’s no harm in packing for it.” He gave his hand another squeeze before he stood up, stretching some.

Sherlock was about to leave before he thought to ask, “Do you want to stay with me? In the hospital. I made it sound like it was only acceptable for short amounts of time, but that’s not what I intended to convey. I was going off of the assumption that you would want to come home rather than be by my side the entire time, which was... incredibly daft of me.”

John chuckled down at his lap before he looked up at him, grinning widely. “You said you’re not the same person, and to a certain point that’s somewhat true, but you’re still really damn wordy, and I think you do it to be more objective. Why don’t you just ask me for what you want?”

He frowned, and considered it. The question was rhetorical but brought up a valid point. “It has something to do with the fact that I wouldn’t like if you rejected the offer, although I would brush it off with an ‘okay, see you around’ and likely forget about it later. It’s nothing worth drama, I’m only...” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Doing it again. Will you please come with me for however long I’ll be staying? If all is in my favour, it will only be a day or so.”

“Still didn’t stop you,” he hummed. “Yes, of course. I was always going to, I’m just...”

“Distracting yourself.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t know what to tell him. Everything they could do was being done, so there was no point in fretting. Nothing they did now would affect it. “I’ll finish packing and try to get some clothes for you, and in the meantime... could you possibly find some things you’d like to show me? It’d be helpful to see if I can draw anything from it, snap something back into place. I want to know more.” Sherlock smirked to himself and rubbed the back of his neck. “It must be terrible of me to say it, but this _is_ exciting.”

John laughed as he got up, patting his shoulder before he went to the dresser. “I’ve heard many a morally ambiguous statement from you, Sherlock. I don’t think you can shock me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sat on the grass, running his thumb along the height of his cup. "This isn't just water, John," he said quietly. "Something else. Sleeping pill, melatonin - most likely the latter. I don't imagine you've drugged me very often." He hadn't taken a sip yet. 
> 
> John closed his eyes and swallowed. "I'm sorry."
> 
> "No you're not. You think it's necessary. If it ends well and I'm healthy, then you will feel morally justified. It is justified," he muttered before he gulped from the glass, then held it in both of his hands. "You're only sorry because I know. I'll do you a favour and forget this... no guilt, no betrayal. I'm tired of these things. And I couldn't expect you to be any better, could I?" He shook his head. "The answer to that one is 'no'. I imagine if our places were reversed, I would do the same. I just think I might be more stealthy about it."
> 
> Sherlock finished his water and set the glass down, slumping over to rest his head on John's shoulder. "Take care of me."
> 
> "I will, I promise," John whispered, sighing deeply as he began running his fingers through his hair. "You'll be okay, Sherlock, I swear it."
> 
> "You love me."
> 
> "Very much so, yes."
> 
> He hummed against him. "No, wait - not the right word. I think you need me. For whatever reason... it must be a good one. Hope I can be that person again."


	8. Chapter 8

In five minutes, Mycroft’s car pulled up outside. He didn’t leave the car to knock and announce himself, only waited for them to be ready.

Sherlock wanted to make a crack about how surprised he was that his brother managed to make it to the house without a dent, but his heart wasn’t in it. As he and John finished packing everything – clothes, memorabilia, the basics – the doctor wandered around the house in something of a rushed frenzy, making sure that they hadn’t left anything behind. He didn’t want to leave once they’d gotten to the hospital, Sherlock figured easily.

It felt like surrender. He was confessing that he could very well be dying and might never see this house again, and the mood of the notion clouded his head even after he shook away the thought. There were a lot of things in that scenario that he wished to do without, but the one he thought about most was how much it would hurt John. Sherlock would hardly lose anything. His life, but what was that? He didn’t have the experiences that built it all up and hooked attachments into him. There was no doubt that he would care, that he might be moved enough to weep, but John would have it so much harder.

He watched the good doctor finish with his organised dash, turning lights off and making sure that some electronics went unplugged. When he was finished, he looked to Sherlock with a forced smile that made his heart hurt.

He wished John would stop making him feel things. Stop making him care.

The absurdity of it made him smile back and he swallowed before he asked, "How far is this hospital?"

"It's only a half-hour away. You used to go there all the time, but with the move... well, you don't have to have a lab at your disposal to make things bubble up and stink," John said, scrunching his nose a little.

Sherlock watched him with this awe, and he might not have known him, but he did adore him. He let go of the handle to their suitcase and reached out, a hesitant pause before he cupped his cheek. He wanted so much for him. "Thank you for agreeing to come with me," he said, quiet in the near darkness that engulfed them. "I don't... you could've been insulted or cruel, or you could have been some arse that left in the morning. Or non-existent. Yet still I have you of all these choices. I want you to know how much I cherish this. In case tomorrow I forget again."

John swallowed hard and blinked a few times. His hand was so warm, he pressed against it with a soft breath that brushed against the man's wrist. "I don't want you to forget," he mumbled almost childishly. "I want you. Even if there isn't any progression, if you can never get it back... you are still very much that same man. You could've used me, like you said, and you didn't. And... I would’ve forgiven you, but I’m happier that you didn’t put me through it."

"I wanted to," he admitted. "I did, I wanted to give everything and take even more, but... The question was what would've happened afterwards. It would be blatant disregard for you. Not to mention I have no idea how to go about that. You would have caught me, if my moral qualms weren't enough to stop me." Sherlock sighed and stepped in so he could place a gentle kiss to his forehead. It was timid, but sweet. He wanted to get used to these little gestures. "Maybe 'moral' isn't the right word. If you weren't lovely to me this morning, I might have tried. I might've been able to get through it without feeling like a heartless bastard, but it wouldn't have been worth hurting you. So here we are."

He gazed up at him with soft eyes and brought his hands up to his chest. Normally he might stroke the collar of his dress shirt, but he wasn't wearing one. He wondered why that was, if something about him made Sherlock dress elegantly. "Thank you. I might've said something rude or tried to do something that we've done before and freaked you out. You are... the filthiest fucking human being I've ever had the pleasure of sharing a bed with. And that's - believe me, it's a good thing," John assured with a nod.

He froze up a little as a blush flooded his cheeks. He was starting to hate that- was he so shy in the beginning with him, too? He must have been. "Okay," he muttered dumbly. "Let's go. Mycroft won't wait patiently forever."

John nodded and gave his palm a little peck before he grabbed the suitcase and started walking to the door. He bit his lip and stopped before the door. "Sherlock? I have to ask, earlier this morning, before I left for work..." He cleared his throat. "You were thinking of me, yeah? When you said-"

He let out a soft grunt and clenched his jaw. ‘I love you’. The phrase, although uttered and typed, still brought a light flush to his cheeks. He wanted to be able to say it again – to have the _credentials_ to say it. Now he was just a mindless kitten, letting himself be tugged into the situation and submitting to his role. He wanted to be real again.

Sherlock pursed his lips. Surely he must've heard his name. "Why do you 'have' to know?"

"It's stupid, never mind," he muttered, and unlocked the door.

"It's not stupid. Simply very awkward, for me. John... I have no memories of having sex with anyone. Since I know I must have, you're an odd outlier of this, but I can’t remember that. I wish I could."

John turned back and stared at him for a second. "Wait, what? Not at all?"

Sherlock shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Well, no. Didn't I have my first time with you?"

"No. I mean, I’m flattered, but I just thought now that if you didn’t know me, it might’ve been an ex. I was just curious."

"Oh." Somehow that hurt. He didn't know why - and he didn't want to know. Whoever was before John... they didn't exactly have a place in his head, they weren't current. That's what he told himself in any case, because his idea of them being gentle and loving was being shattered at the revelation. Not because it was impossible to be kind and experienced, just that... he realised that he idolised John, in a way. Knowing full well that most of it was fabricated, he was desperate to believe that things were perfect with him. He didn’t know how to handle it otherwise, without knowing him. "Let's go, John," he muttered irritably, his brow furrowed. He took the suitcase back from him, determined to carry his own weight.

They finally left the house, and John wanted to say something to Sherlock to make him feel better, but he didn't know what. He locked the door and looked back to see Sherlock had already made his way to the car, as was evident by the boot slamming shut, the door following after. John took a deep breath and looked up at the sky while he walked, just trying to maintain some more willpower not to break down over this loss that cut him with every heartbeat.

He wanted him back. If he couldn’t have that, he wanted him now. Neither of those things were guaranteed, even if Sherlock wanted them too. He opened the door and got in next to the man, who was in the middle of a conversation.

"-In any case, it's not an insult. I don't remember John, and..." Sherlock smiled wryly at him and bit his lip. If his mind would be silent he could be happy for perhaps one moment. “And he’s obviously important.”

John frowned and looked to the front of the car. Mycroft wasn't sitting in the driver's seat - it was Greg. Clearly he'd just stumbled upon an introduction. "You don't think you're pushing this a little?" he asked, clenching his fist against the seat. "For god's sake, Mycroft, I was already prepared to kick your arse over being negligent, but this just takes the fucking cake." He huffed and slumped against the seat. "No offence, Greg.”

"Oh, none taken." It was in good humour, if a little insulted. The car began to turn around.

"You are too willing to forget that I made my own observations to my brother's health and found him in good standing. This memory issue is peculiar, but there appears to be no hindrance in the process of creating new memories as of yet. I was willing to give him time to adjust to this new life." Mycroft's voice was stony, but clearly embarrassed. He didn't seem to believe what he was saying.

Sherlock went silent as he listened to them argue over him. They all cared so much... It didn't feel different than what he was used to when it came to his family, but it was odd when there were two strangers involved. He sat back and held in the icy shiver that bit at his bones as he looked out the window. The sunset escaped behind city buildings in the distance as they moved along the faded road. His hand slowly fell from his lap to rest in the centre of the seats - hopefully John would do what he couldn't. "We don’t need to keep talking about this. We’re going to the hospital; nothing else can be done until we arrive. Can everyone shut up about it now?"

John pursed his lips, ready to criticise him for how unconcerned he seemed to be, but he couldn't. Sherlock had made it clear how he felt when he confessed this, and a few other passing moments. He probably couldn’t stand the constant reminder. Had he experienced a normal moment at all since this happened? With a doleful look, he reached out and took his hand, interlacing his fingers with Sherlock's. He just wanted him to be okay.

Sherlock noticed how his heart rate increased at mere hand-holding. He felt he needed to be sly and hide it, though the men in the front of the car either didn't see or didn't care. He imagined that this was how teenagers felt when they did these things for the first time. He closed his eyes and let the warmth of the gesture comfort him, if only a little... if time could freeze just so he could think his way out of this, he’d be so grateful.

"I noticed you didn't bring your violin. I'm sure that they would let you have it," John said in a small attempt to change the subject. He met eyes with Greg in the rear-view mirror and the worry was just as evident in the detective inspector.

"I didn't want to bring it."

"You can no longer play?" Mycroft asked. He didn’t always speak up, but when he did, he knew when to ask the right damn questions.

"No, I can."

"I don't understand," John said. "Why wouldn't you want to-"

"I simply don't. Too bulky, not important enough. I'll have plenty of other things to focus on. This isn't a holiday."

"Okay," he whispered. Sherlock’s response was fast and canned - why was he lying? There was no shame in this.

The car fell silent for a while. Sherlock's face was hard and stone-like, John was dejected, and Mycroft was irked. Greg just felt awkward. "So... Sherlock. Any questions? Sorry, I'm trying not to act like this isn't huge, but it's pretty damn difficult."

"If you said 'hard', I might've tried to go for a 'that's what she said' joke," he muttered with a mirthless look about him. "'He said'?" Sherlock cocked his head. "Both work." At the glare of Mycroft in the mirror, he snorted, and couldn't help but notice John holding back a giggle. He could still be amusing, at least. "Sorry. I'm tired and you're receiving the poor end of it. I don’t normally make such easy, cheap jokes."

Greg huffed softly. "We'd get on a lot better if you spoke your mind, let's just get that out of the way right now."

Sherlock tried to give John a smile and was met with a gloomy reflection of it. “How long have you and Mycroft been married?”

"It'll be a year in March."

"Mm." He went silent for a short while before it occurred to him to add a "Congratulations" to his hum. "How did we meet?"

"Oh... shit, it must have been - what, seven, eight years ago? I was clearing out the rabble at a crime scene and you didn't want to leave. Back then I was hardly of any rank, but you told me about the victim's mistress, and I had to relay the theory. Didn't want to be wrong, you seemed so smug about it when I argued with you. Like you thought it was funny that I could be so daft." He shook his head. "Month or so later, you were hanging about another one and you pulled me aside. You kept popping up and you kept being right, and eventually it just clicked. I'd call you on the less easy ones and you'd be as giddy as Christmas to lead me around my own crime scene and make a fool out of everyone there."

"Yeah, and Donovan nearly got him killed for being useful," John said pointedly, staring out the window. Something about that hit a nerve.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he still asked, "How, exactly?"

Greg sighed at him. That wasn't fair, and John knew that. "A long while back, there was a tough case. I suspect you won't remember it. In a string of crimes that a certain terrible human being committed, two children were missing. You did your thing, made an older woman cry, insulted my officers... anyway, one of the kids managed to have enough time to leave behind a trail of this oily stuff that lit up under a black light."

He frowned. "What colour did it glow?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"The colour will narrow it down to a few substances," Mycroft said, a tight-lipped smile spreading on his face as they finally merged onto a city road. Instead of giving it away, he said, "It was light blue."

"Petroleum jelly, or - linseed oil?" He grinned. "I'm liking this. Go on."

"You won't like it, trust me. Having to do that was the most humiliating thing in my life." He shook his head again as they stopped for a light, then continued. "The kid made a trail with it and managed to get it on the kidnapper's shoes. You were able to see that and you did some weird scientific voodoo that narrowed it down to an old chocolate factory. It was... goddamn unbelievable, and Donovan decided that it meant you did it. And - I'm sorry, the evidence was compelling. We managed to rescue the kids before they did any lethal damage. The bastard had wrapped up these chocolates in some sort of tin foil laced with mercury. The more they ate, the quicker they died. The boy had to go to intensive care, but his sister had barely eaten any."

"The boy was smart enough to leave a trail...” He paused. “There was no doubt that something was wrong with the chocolate, as they were kidnapped and simply... left to it. In all likelihood, it's plausible that he tried to eat it all so his sister couldn't have any and be poisoned."

John smirked as pride swelled in his chest and he squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Told you, you're brilliant," he murmured. He leaned over to kiss his cheek and Sherlock furrowed his brow at him.

It seemed random, but he didn't complain. He was still very aware of his brother's presence, and didn't return John's affection for that reason alone. "It's not a far leap," he muttered. “What happened after they were rescued? That’s clearly not the end of the story.”

He sighed and licked his lower lip, watching Mycroft. There was a nod before Greg said, “After they were safe, we had them in this room. We’d asked them about what happened and then when we were done, it was your turn. All you did was open the door and introduce yourself, and she screamed like murder.”

Sherlock fell silent. He couldn’t fathom why she would have screamed unless he was the person who kidnapped them, but clearly he wasn’t because he was sitting here. “Ah,” he breathed out, biting his cheek. “Their kidnapper went through some trouble to look like me in order to frame me for their murder. Brilliant, and quite obvious – though I have a feeling this ‘Donovan’ speculated enough for it to be a very convincing lie.”

“You have that right. It was... fucking awful. I hated it. I didn’t want to believe it for a second, but if I didn’t at least consider it – I would’ve been a right idiot. Part of that was your influence.”

“I influenced you into believing that I intended to murder children?”

“Years and years of making everyone feel like an idiot for what was right under their nose made it hard to ignore how much I wanted it to not be true. I didn’t have anything to rule it out at the time, and I tried to get you to come quietly, but you kept spouting this crap about the press ruining your good name...” Greg took in a big, shuddery breath. “Anyway, it was all a big plot and it was a difficult time for everyone. Can you just ask John later? I’m not... I don’t want to go through this again. I paid my dues.”

He wanted to insist but knew not to push it. He clearly felt guilty even after whatever amount of time had passed, so Sherlock let it go. Greg seemed like a good man so far, a bit more civilian compared to Mycroft – which made him question what exactly the appeal was in that.

It didn't take much longer for them to reach the hospital. He let the car jostle him just the slightest bit as there was a sharp turn into the car park, and ignored John's intense observation when Greg turned off the engine. Sherlock was the first to get out, producing the suitcase from the boot as the rest of the man came out in crumbled forms of their true selves. He stared at them all with annoyance and pity, for he couldn't deny them the right to be upset over him. He could only tell them that his outlook on this life wasn't being improved by their moods. "If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would be tremendously helpful," he muttered in some bitter humour, and began walking along the cars towards the entrance.

"He'll be okay," he heard Greg say.

"You needn't coddle me," Mycroft replied sternly.

"Won't stop me from trying to make you feel better."

Everyone was all so in love, it was sickening. Mycroft and Greg were perfect, and John... he was having a lot less than he deserved. He pushed open the door in and angry huff, and the doctor barely caught it in time to step into the entrance.

_Broken._

_Destroyed. Emotional dead weight._

_Useless._

His brain fell on autopilot as John took the lead to get him where he needed to go.

_Coward._

"Sherlock. Love, you have to get on the lift in order to get to the room."

He drifted out of a foggy rift of endless thought to see the three men standing in a lift, John urging him to get in. The doctor's hand was wrapped around his forearm and tugging. Mycroft stared at him with nothing but annoyance, and was the only person in that lift that didn't believe fading out was a sign of something wrong.

He uttered a half-hearted apology and stepped into the lift before Greg pressed the button for the seventh floor.

"Are you okay?" John asked, his brow raised as he brushed curly locks from his forehead. "Can you talk to me, please?"

"I'm fine." His eyes slid shut and he slumped against the wall as the lift climbed up the levels. "Tired. Thinking. No need to play mother hen - please stop touching me."

He retracted his arms with a dejected wince, and they fell to his sides. "I'm sorry," John whispered.

"Not you." It was the best explanation he had to tell him it wasn't a rejection. He was just done with this.

Tears welled in his eyes but they didn't travel down his cheeks, only faded back into the shallow dams of emotional distress. If they were all gone he might be able to think about the problem without the fear of appearing worried. They were all so concerned, even this Greg, whom he knew for all of forty-five minutes. "I should have brought a book. This will be boring."

Mycroft had a subtly proud smile on his face, masked by disappointment, as his expressions concerning Sherlock usually were. "It will be tedious, yes, but you must admit you'd much rather handle silly questions than find yourself dying in the middle of the night."

"Mycroft, not helping!" John snapped, shooting a dangerous glare at the man. Greg didn't try to defend him.

"I would rather be faced with a likely truth than feel-good lies. I may or may not be okay, I may or may not die." Sherlock stared down at the suitcase, his eyes focused on the one pocket with the envelope. He would look through the photos when John slept - if he slept. There were a lot of sleeping pills in their cabinet, though past their recommendation date. Sleeping problems were in his history but there was no telling if they would return. "Does anyone know if I have a will?"

His brother was the only one to answer. "Yes."

"And everything is fairly distributed according to who I value and who would appreciate my possessions."

"Yes."

"Good."

John swallowed sharply and clenched his fists as the doors opened. He squeezed in between Sherlock and Greg to get out first and made a hunched stomp over to where they needed to go. Mycroft followed suit in his restrained, careful pace. 

Sherlock gripped the suitcase handle and tugged on it as he went to follow, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. He glared at the offending extremity and found Greg staring right back at him.

"Sherlock, you're upsetting him."

"It's hardly my fault that these things are a reality. I try ignoring it and my head fills with it instead. There are no breaks."

The man grunted in disagreement and his grip tightened. "Please." His expression softened, but he held him there. "Do whatever you have to do, but don't be all stony about this. I know this is confusing and you might not understand it, but that man cares about you. I don't have to look at him for more than a second to know he's scared as all hell, and hurt, and he doesn't want to depend on you to fix those things. But that's what people do, okay? They're supposed to be there for each other when the world's going to hell in a hand basket, and you need to find a way to let him know that you're still there for him. Even if you don't know why." His hold on him turned gentle, a mild suggestion at least.

He swallowed slowly and gave a slight nod before his gaze fell to the floor. Though he didn't like the feelings this confrontation stirred, he was starting to understand why Greg was his friend. "I'll keep that in mind," he muttered with a stiff nod. They left the lift and followed the two men.

Silently he was grateful, even if he had to burrow deep beyond the insult in it - being told how to treat someone, how to act. Being told to do anything had always sparked a rebellion, but he was able to see past the oppositional stubbornness and accept that Greg said something because he wanted to see them do well in this moment of anxiety.

In front, John continued to grit his teeth, though his slow waves of reasoning were starting to erode the frustration and anger that had stacked up.

Mycroft whispered, "Calm. All is well."

"He's talking about wills," he snarled back in a hushed breath. "How can you say that?"

"You are of average intelligence. You can't determine what that line of inquiry means? He wants to know that you will be well if this unfortunate situation takes a turn for the worse. Having a plan is the only thing that could soothe him in these moments of uncertainty. Take notice that he bothered to think about what legacy he might leave behind."

"He won't. I won’t let it happen."

"Neither you nor my brother are in control of that. While you fret and steam, he broods and plots. If you could sacrifice a moment to communicate-"

"We've talked. He nearly passed out in the kitchen. He doesn't want to hurt me, and I don't want to lose him. Pretty damn clear. I imagine you find this so amusing, lesser beings worrying about attachments. Even since marriage, you're still a smug holier-than-thou twat."

He sucked a breath through his teeth and was about to shoot back a cold but accurate remark, then footsteps approached a little louder behind them. "Speech is not entirely synonymous with communication. Silence is a more serene method."

John rolled his eyes and was about to ask what the hell that meant but Sherlock passed him by, their arms brushing together. It felt cold and he only thought himself more weak. The vagueness in Mycroft’s words were explained, however, and he began to think about what to say when they took a turn into the lobby, where the nurses’ station stood.

Sherlock walked up to the counter and curled his toes as he waited for a nurse to get off of the phone. He was talking to someone, not a patient or a doctor. The familiarity gave it away.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be home in two hours. I’ll figure something else out.” He looked guilty and heartbroken.

Ring on his finger. Married, or engaged – it wasn’t very worn, so the latter was more likely. His hands shook and there were bags under his eyes. He’d worked a long shift. The man was running on fumes.

He hung up the phone and rubbed his face before turning in his chair. When he looked up, his eyes widened. “Ah – what can I do you for?” he asked groggily.

Get some sleep. Go home to his future spouse. “I have an appointment. William Holmes?” His own name sounded odd, he mused with a slight smile. That wasn’t an effect of those gaps.

The man tapped his fingers on the keyboard with a furrowed brow, having to hit the backspace a few times. “Yeah, right on time. Doctor Richards is probably checking on a few of his overnight patients, so why don’t you sit in one of those seats along the wall, and...” he reached over to a clipboard and clipped a few papers to it. “Fill this out, and I’ll let him know you’re waiting, ‘kay?”

Sherlock beamed at him and nodded. It was forced, but still genuine. He gently took the clipboard from him and went to sit on one of the comfy blue chairs against the far wall. John sat directly to his left and Mycroft to his right, then Greg sat in a separate one next to Mycroft.

 

Date: 16 November 2018

Name

Last: Holmes

First: William

Middle: Sherlock Scott

Sex: Male

Birth Date: 6 January 1986

Age: 32

 

That was about all he could answer before he had to hand it off to Mycroft to fill out. His brother covered all of the past things, and then it was handed to John for the more current information.

He slumped back in his seat with a deep sigh, closing his eyes. “This is terribly boring.”

“Such as it must be,” Mycroft muttered. “It’s a childish concern... though valid. I’ve never enjoyed these places.”

“Me neither. Sitting, waiting. Neither are things I’m particularly good at.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock sat slumped against his seat in the hospital, watching the occasional person pass by. In the evening it hardly looked busy, but the nurse at the desk was his clue. He didn’t know why he focused on him. There was the obvious element of pity, but it was more than that – his situation seemed to reflect his own in a way, scrambling even though he was exhausted and just wanted to give up the control to someone else.

He thought that, but knew he couldn’t live up to it. A loss of control was a deep fear being constantly shoved in his face at the moment.

Beside him, John was flipping through pages, writing swiftly and tapping the pen against the clipboard when he was trying to remember something. “Do you remember the last time he smoked?” he asked, biting his cheek as he rubbed his forehead.

“Christmas, 2013.” His brother looked listless, even with Greg leaning against him and holding his hand.

He watched them with a soft sigh. Even though he’d still not accommodated himself with the thought of Mycroft caring for someone other than immediate family, much less loving them and legally entangling himself with them... it looked natural. Something he lusted after with hesitant, clambering hands. He could have these things if he hadn’t told John, but how better off would he be? In the middle of the night he might find himself confessing to the sleeping form around him, whimpering and sputtering out apologies for how weak he was.

Instead he made the man feel like he couldn’t come to him – for the same reason. He imagined that if he were the man with all those memories, John might trust him enough to let himself go and cry into his chest. Whatever he needed. Though, in that situation it wouldn’t be necessary. John would have nothing to be upset over, he’d still be able to come home and ‘love up on him’, as he’d called it.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and sat forward, his elbows on his knees as his hands clasped together. Waiting wasn’t boring, it was just torture.

John finished with the paperwork and held out the board for him. “It needs your signature.” His lips were pursed in a thin line, his jaw tight. With his brow plunging down over his eyes, the expression might’ve been interpreted as anger, but Sherlock decided it was determination.

He took it from him and signed the last page before he got up. His steps were slow and careful against the tile patterned with what could best be described as white noise. Laying the clipboard on the edge of the desk counter, he looked at the wall beyond the desk. There was a whiteboard with indecipherable nonsense scrawled all over it, and a coffee maker that was currently running. The thought of anyone having to suffer the stress of this job was horrible enough. He had a good idea of how much worse it must’ve been in the subtle, sandy winds of a desert.

Having an active imagination was a curse sometimes.

“He looks so lost,” sighed Greg, squeezing Mycroft’s hand in habit. He knew the man was probably aching to say that he didn’t need these gestures, as he always did, but if he opened his mouth he’d just tell him to stop trying to save his damn ego. “Do we even know the extent of this? Could he work, do you think?”

Mycroft shifted and crossed his leg over his knee. “There’s no saying for certain. It’s likely, but that means nothing.”

“No one would even trust his observations now anyway,” John huffed in a sad laugh. “They’d probably just poke fun. I wouldn’t want to be there for that – and I wouldn’t let Sherlock suffer it alone, either. He hasn’t... He’s just lost enough to know exactly how much he’s missing. I’d rather have him too lost to know this.” He swallowed and blinked a little as he watched the man turn back to sit down again.

Sherlock sunk into the seat and held back a yawn as he thought. He needed to start asking John questions, but he didn’t want to do that around Greg and Mycroft. There were a lot of personal things he wanted to know – which he’d probably blush and stammer through – so he could get a clearer idea of who he was to John. He turned his head to look at him and found the man was gazing right back at him.

He would be okay. Neither of them knew this, but he needed him to believe it. He slowly inched his hand over to John’s lap and covered his hand with his own, averting his eyes when his heart decided to race.

It was a stupid organ. Why did that have to be associated with emotions?

There was a soft breath accompanied by a smile before John turned his hand over so he could interlace their fingers. When Sherlock did things like this it was easy to forget he wasn’t the same man. Now, instead of this person he’d confided so many things to, shared such delicate moments with, he had... a stranger that was trying his best. His eyes shut and he tried not to feel guilty, but regardless of what he wanted it still overtook him.

“Is Jean Lucas DeValier still composing?” Sherlock asked.

John pouted. The name sounded familiar, and he knew he should be able to place it. They’d gone to a concert a long while back and there were a lot of gorgeous pieces being played. It was possible that DeValier was one of the musicians. A violinist, actually - Sherlock really enjoyed listening to his music.

“No,” Mycroft said, “he died of liver failure two years ago.”

The man’s face fell, but John gave him a reassuring smile. It was a good sign that he remembered the musician, though it probably had no correlation whatsoever to their relationship. “I can find some of his music if you want. I remember you liked a lot of his stuff.”

“I-“

“William Holmes?” a man called. He was standing on the far edge of the room, just apart from a doorway. He was Doctor Richards, no doubt, with his coat and the office-like formal clothes underneath. The man looked weary, but wasn’t in such an exaggerated state as the nurse.

Sherlock let out a sigh and stood, letting go of John’s hand. Mycroft and Greg began getting up, but he shook his head. “You can go home - I know you’re both tired. I don’t want to steal the rest of the evening from you. I’ll text you the details if we get any new information.”

The men exchanged a look and Greg clearly wanted to say something, but Mycroft just said “I trust John will make sure that you’re accommodated.” In his eyes there was this understanding, and it made Sherlock grateful. He wished it was so easy to communicate with everyone else.

John slowly stood up and gave a smile to the men as he gave his hair a quick brush with his fingers. “Thank you. Four’s a lot of people for an exam room anyway.” He grabbed the handle of the suitcase before Sherlock could get to it. “Have a good night.”

They left the men in their seats, and Sherlock tried to fake an upbeat mood as he greeted the doctor. “Thank you for agreeing to an appointment on such short notice,” he said, holding out his hand.

“It’s completely understandable that someone in your position would want to know everything about the situation. And the sooner we collect more information, the sooner we can solve the problem,” Doctor Richards said with a bright smile as he shook his hand. He was an older man, but not by much – perhaps in his forties. His hair hadn’t even begun to thin.

Sherlock noticed how all of his self-conscious thoughts melted away when he was meeting people who had never met him before. There was no standard; he could just be... himself, for one brief moment. He dropped his hand and cleared his throat a little. “Doctor Richards, this is John Watson, my...” He trailed off. Usually people were exclusive after a few months, then engaged or married after a year, but the “usual” was unreliable. Sherlock let his mouth hang open as his eyes pleaded John to step in and fill this gap.

John placed a reassuring hand on his lower back and said, “Boyfriend. You see what our concern is, then.” Watching Sherlock struggle with these things hurt him more than he thought it would. He was left with the memories, the man flustered and struggling to come up with the appropriate words to clarify exactly what he wanted because he didn’t want to be misunderstood – the first time they’d ever addressed a future together. It was one of the many things that’d made him realise how much he loved him.

The doctor hummed as he looked between them. “Yes, that is... well, I’m glad you got here quickly. Let’s get you into a room so we can discuss this a little more.” He turned back to the doorway and pushed a heavy door open. He kept holding it while they walked in and received a “thank you” from John.

Sherlock walked down the hall with John’s hand still on his back, letting Doctor Richards lead him. The thought of what they would find wasn’t as daunting as the thought of never being “himself” again. He blew out a slow sigh and gently nudged John with a tight-lipped smile. It was a silent apology.

John looked up at him and licked his lower lip. The first instinct was to save this with tea, or a kiss on his forehead. He’d pet his hair and tell him that he was going to be okay, even if he didn’t believe it. He gave his right hip a little squeeze and took a step so he was walking a little closer. “So, Doctor Richards, do you have any idea how long our stay might be? I was under the impression that it could be a few nights.”

“Well, of course this is by choice. Sudden amnesia or gaps in the memory isn’t always so dramatic because it takes time for the manifesting problems to affect anything else. I would like you to stay tonight, Mr. Holmes, just so we can keep a wary eye. It’s hard to imagine any emergencies might present themselves, but...”

“Anything that could go wrong will go wrong,” Sherlock muttered with a grimacing smirk. He supposed morbid humour was always his bag. “Whatever amount of time is necessary, I will stay.”

“Let’s just take it one step at a time.” The doctor stopped in the doorway to an examination room and gestured for them to walk in, smiling at them both.

Sherlock left John’s side as they walked in. The room was standard, small, certainly not the one he would be staying in. He bit his lip as he walked over to the exam table and sat up on it, the fresh parchment crinkling beneath him as he shifted to a comfortable position. John took a chair on the side of the room and the doctor sat himself on a swivel stool. The silence was nothing but apprehension.

“I’m afraid we can’t do much in the way of testing at the moment, but we should have a discussion about this,” the doctor said, clasping his hands together. “So, Mr. Holmes, we know that there are some considerable gaps in your memory. Are there any other symptoms that you’ve noticed?”

“No, not that I can think of.” This time he left out the ache in his calves. He no longer thought that it could have any correlation, and wanted to wait until he could have a private moment with John to ask about it.

“No headaches, nausea?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“All right...” the doctor turned on his chair and slide open a drawer. In it was a pad of paper and many pens. “I want you to try to describe these gaps and what they entail as best you can, and I’m going to take a few notes. The more specific the better, but don’t feel bad if you can’t explain something.”

He licked the inside of his teeth as he became ever aware of John’s presence. He was wise enough to know that mentioning these things would hurt him, and they might make him face a reality he didn’t want to be aware of. A day was not long enough to get used to these things, never mind the hour and a half the man had been provided. So he took a little breath and asked him, “Can you leave the room? You won’t like this, and I know you’d try to stay to make sure I’m okay, but I can’t let you listen.”

John met his eyes, swallowing. There was the instinct to protest, but he knew that he was right. He wanted to be there for him so he would feel safe and that he’d be healthy, but it wasn’t because he needed to be. Like Sherlock had said, this would be incredibly boring, and the hospital would take as best care of him as he could, but that wasn’t enough for him. After a moment he nodded and stood. He wanted to give him a kiss and promise he’d be right outside the door but he caught himself. It didn’t mean the same to Sherlock. “I’ll give you some privacy. Just text me when you’re ready for me to come back.”

“We won’t be too long,” the doctor promised.

He didn’t argue with the man as he left the room and closed it behind him. There was a second that he spent resting against it, staring at the wall opposite him. It was a light grey, with a file holder fastened to it, just beside a doorway to another exam room.

The first comparison for this situation that easily rose in his head was death. It wasn’t sufficient. He still had a man who wanted well for him, but it wasn’t the one he knew. John shuffled down the hallway and made sure to turn up the ringer on his phone so he wouldn’t miss anything.

He wished he’d known sooner. If Sherlock could have told him this morning, he would’ve gotten him to the hospital and maybe they could run more tests than they could tonight. He wouldn’t have the embarrassing twinge in his stomach at the memory of kissing him, trying to convince him into making him late for work. How awful that must’ve been for Sherlock.

Of course the man decided to act fine. For the sake of collecting data before confrontation, not the same flimsy, giggly “For science, John” when the detective asked him to do something odd, usually related to sex.

What hurt the most, he thought, was that wanting to have that man back made him feel _guilty._

He should be grateful that he was alive.

He should be grateful that he was still here. Still wanted to _be_ here. Wanted to be the man that lie next to him at night and often slept with his face in John’s chest, the one whose laughter made his heart warm with this undeniable glee, whose kisses made him want to lie down so he didn’t have to spend so much energy standing – and everything in between.

And wanting that was clearly killing that poor bastard.

Tears welled in his eyes and he blinked them away with a huff, burrowing his hands in his pockets. He was terrible for wanting it, surely.

John pulled out his phone and unlocked it, swiping through the pages for his messaging application. A quick tap of his thumb had him looking at a list of threads. He was tempted to look through the ones from Sherlock, just to have a reminder of him. Instead he opened the one he had with Greg and started typing.

 

Sorry I was crass about you being here. I know I said “no offence”, and I meant it, I just didn’t want to overwhelm him. I don’t know how long this will last. I’ll start really worrying when the estimate comes from the doctor, but right now I want to ask that you don’t offer any cases. I know it’s an obvious thing but I needed to say it. I’ll also toss something your way if I think the police can help.

 

He leaned against the wall and sighed, letting his head rest against it. He needed to stop thinking. It was only making the situation worse.

His phone chimed.

 

_Of course._

_You know you can talk to me, if you need it._

I appreciate it. I might.

_You can also talk to him. It might help him._

I don’t want to upset him.

_Yeah, but he’s Sherlock. You don’t have to tell him for him to know something, but it’ll just make him not trust you if you don’t come out with it._

Maybe.

_Or just hold it all in and let him know that everything’s not all right._

_You’re a bloody awful liar._

I know. Not helping.

Both hands on the wheel, Greg. Goodnight.

_Night._

John shook his head to himself and pocketed his phone before slumping more against the wall. He needed to let Sarah know he wouldn’t be able to go into work for a while, but that could wait until Sunday, when they had some confirmation that this wasn’t just a day’s fluke. Maybe sometimes brains just... broke.

He quickly threw away that thought. Sherlock didn’t break, not ever. And what was this supposed to be caused by? There was nothing odd about what they’d done the days previous to this. Sherlock hadn’t seemed different.

He was as loving as ever.

John’s phone chimed Sherlock’s tone now, and he checked it.

 

_Ready for you to come back. Thank you. -SH_

He didn’t waste time on his way back to the examination room, walking at a brisk pace the entire way there. Somehow he managed not to get lost, but he hadn’t walked too far away from the room in the first place. When he got to the door, there were muffled sounds. He cocked his head and paused.

“Well, it is quite peculiar. Usually when someone loses these odd chunks of memory, it’s an entire length of time. There have been people with a tumour in their temporal lobe and have lost years of their childhood, their most recent ten years, or all memory entirely, but it seldom seems so random. If we were playing guesswork, which is dangerous and shouldn’t be taken seriously, I would vie for early-onset Alzheimer’s, but there’s no evidence of you being unable to recall recent events. For example – that name and address I had you remember.”

“Tasha Coleman, 31 Brown Road.”

“Exactly correct.”

John licked his lower lip and gave a little warning knock before he opened the door. Sherlock’s head lifted and there was a soft smile on the man’s face. “I’m guessing we’re no closer to a diagnosis,” he said, walking in to sit in the chair from before. He wished he was a little closer to Sherlock so he might give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Doctor Richards hummed, giving a little shrug. “Well, we narrowed it down just a slight bit. Sherlock doesn’t seem to have any head injuries, though an MRI or a PET scan would certainly help give us an idea of what is causing these gaps in his memory. In the meantime, there’s no evidence of being unable to create new memories, though these things take time and we can’t say that there won’t be a problem in the future. At the moment, we just need to take this one step at a time. Like I said earlier, staying overnight would definitely be recommended so that we can be here should an emergency arrive. We can schedule a PET scan and a blood test for tomorrow, and hopefully get some answers.”

He nodded. “That’s... well, it’s good.” Of course he’d prefer not to have a problem. “Is there anything we can do while we’re waiting for that?”

“Well, for the tests, I’d ask you – Mr. Holmes,” he said, glancing back at Sherlock, “not to eat anything for the next twelve hours, and to drink only water. Shouldn’t be too difficult considering you’ll sleep for most of that time.”

Sherlock chuckled softly and brushed a hand through his curls. “I don’t think I will be getting much sleep tonight, but I’ll at least make a decent attempt.”

“That’s all I can really ask.” Doctor Richards smiled and then looked down at his notepad. “So other than that, there’s nothing _required,_ but it might help to try and talk about some of the things you don’t remember, try to hear some of it so maybe you can fill in the gaps a little. It won’t be as good as the actual memories, but it would be good to have a better idea of what’s been going on.”

“I get to learn about myself.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t... I can’t decide whether that’s terrifying and hateful, or interesting. Likely it will be both.”

John smiled at him. His humour was still one of his best features. “I promise I won’t tell you the embarrassing stuff at first. I can’t help but want to save you from those things.”

“I don’t blame you.”

Doctor Richards hummed again and stood up, tearing off the few used sheets off of his notepad before he stored them in one of his pockets. He’d be updating Sherlock’s file with those notes on a later date. “I’ll have a nurse show you to one of our rooms in just a few minutes. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” he said, holding out his hand.

Sherlock shook his hand with a bit of a smile before letting go. He was charming, in a cheering-for-your-team kind of way. Doctor Richards made him feel a little more at ease with the situation, still concerned, but more willing to watch the situation unfold. “Here’s hoping I can retain the memory of this visit.”

“Fingers crossed. Have a good evening, Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes.” He left the room with another smile, and the door closed behind him.

“So formal,” Sherlock said.

He tilted his head. “Does it feel weird?”

“Somewhat. I’m not a ‘Mr. Holmes’ in my head.”

“Who are you in your head?”

He shrugged, shaking his head. It wasn’t a question with an enlightening answer. “Sherlock.”

John scooted his chair over a little closer to him and frowned, leaning over so he could perch his elbows on his knees. “You’re not William?” He didn’t see why that should’ve changed, but it was curious.

“Ah – no,” he laughed. “It’s my father’s name. Technically I’m a ‘the third’, but we seldom pay attention to such a minuscule detail. I don’t mind when a stranger calls me it based on the information they’ve read off a sheet, but I do like being separate.”

“Unique little butterfly?” John asked, grinning a little.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Only a little.”

“Diffusing the tension.”

“You’re too good at that.” He sighed and looked down at his hands. He didn’t know what to say to him. There were no words to do their relationship justice, not without contextual understanding, and small talk was so... odd. Sherlock himself had expressed distaste for it on several occasions. “Thank you for asking me to leave,” he whispered, staring down at the floor now. “I think I didn’t want to be there for that, and I know I would’ve stayed regardless. So thank you for seeing that.”

“I don’t want to see you hurt. It doesn’t... _feel_ good.” He rolled his eyes at himself. “I sound like a toddler.”

“It’s okay. I know what you mean. Thank you.”

He didn’t respond. “You’re welcome” wasn’t appropriate here. It seldom seemed as such, just a snide remark, “I did something for you and you should be grateful.” He could never be that way to John.


	10. Chapter 10

Sitting and waiting was no longer filled with dread. It would return that way, without a doubt. It would hit him hard and he would be frightened of the future, but even then all he could do is sit and watch the seconds tick by, let something take control of him and lead him somewhere else.

He was tired of that.

Sherlock furrowed his brow as he stared at the door with determination, as if riling himself up to threaten it if it didn’t open and reveal the nurse that would take him to the room he’d be staying that night.

He wondered how John was supposed to be able to sleep in that room, if it was like all the other ones he remembered seeing in his life – be it lying there or visiting someone else. It would be uncomfortable to shove their bodies into a tiny bed intended for one person, but he wasn’t about to let the man sleep in a chair either.

Eventually, a nurse did open the door. It felt like half an hour but he knew better to believe his own perspective as the truth.

She was petite, with dull red hair all bundled up in a bun up on the back of her head. “Mr. Holmes?” she asked, her voice soft and small. She looked between the men and seemed to decide that the one sitting on the exam table was the person she was addressing, because that’s where her gaze locked. “We have a room ready for you, if you’ll just follow me.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, hopping off the table. A glimpse at John getting up reminded him – “I know that there mustn’t be much room, but...” Within the next few words, he would be announcing that John was his boyfriend. It wasn’t the first time, but John was the one who said it to the doctor. It sounded so odd. He didn’t recall agreeing to be his boyfriend, though he might if asked again, so it wasn’t anywhere near solidified in his head. John was just someone he liked, and cared for. “If I know John...” So he avoided the word like the coward he was starting to establish himself as. “...which I think I may, he won’t want to leave. Is there some arrangement that can be made so we might both be comfortable?”

“Uhm...”

John coughed a little. “It’s fine, Sherlock, really. Whatever’s there will be fine. And you know, worst case scenario, I can go home.” He was solemn at the suggestion.

He wanted to argue, but decided that it wasn’t the right time to be having the discussion. When they got to the room, he’d continue it. “As you say. Please, lead the way,” he urged the nurse gently, “I’m exhausted.”

“Sure, right this way.” She held the door open until Sherlock put his hand on it, and the men began following her through the hall.

Sherlock hung back a little, and as a result, so did John. The suitcase was trailing behind the doctor, and he couldn’t help but think that John looked cute from this angle. He towered over the man in a way, and it made him wonder how this possibly worked out sometimes. His ears went pink at the thought of how they might’ve had to awkwardly adjust themselves had he continued kissing him in the shower that morning. Did they ever talk about that? Was it frustrating or did they giggle?

He hoped it was something that they laughed about. The thought of getting angry didn’t seem to translate well into this loving relationship that he was trying to build up in his head. He should stop that. Things were never perfect, and no doubt there were heated arguments on occasion.

Something to ask John, he supposed, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

The nurse didn’t look back to see if they were following. All of these people made him wonder about himself, what he would be doing if he was still who he used to be.

He’d kiss John in the morning, they’d have breakfast. They’d text throughout the day, maybe have lunch together. He’d play his violin and swim in the lake, or read, maybe write. Did he still write? Maybe. John would come home and he’d have dinner ready for him, and they’d watch a film together and cuddle on the sofa. After a while they’d retire to the bedroom.

And somewhere throughout that day they’d... _touch._ Anywhere, everywhere. The thought made his skin tingle and he wanted to retreat into this shy little ball.

Somewhere in the midst of his wonderings, he ended up standing in a doorway. The nurse was saying something, but he wasn’t paying much attention. He didn’t mean to be rude or to disregard her, but he really was exhausted. He wanted to go back to the good, loving feeling he’d experience earlier in the day – if only for a select few moments.

“Mr. Holmes?”

“It’s okay, I think. He did this earlier. I think he’s just tired. Thank you, we’ll let you know if there’s anything.”

There was the sound of the suitcase rolling, a couple steps, and then the door closing. Sherlock just stood with the slightest frown on his face, not at all there.

The room was decent in size, with the patient’s bed jutting out from the wall in perpendicular fashion. Immediately upon entering the room, there was a door on the left –what could only be a bathroom. On the furthest wall there was a sofa that looked comfy, with some sort of odd pattern in its texture – corduroy?

“Sherlock?” John asked softly. He was hesitant.

For some reason that reminded him of this book about a toy bear. He wore green coveralls. Sherlock furrowed his brow at the memory. Why would he remember that? He must’ve been young when he read it, as it was meant for children.

“Sherlock, please talk to me. It makes me nervous when you stare at nothing.”

“Do you remember Corduroy?” he asked, frowning deeply now.

“What?”

“The story. It was about a teddy bear that was missing a button on its coveralls. A little girl wanted to buy it and her mother told her that they shouldn’t get him because he didn’t look new.” He blew out a breath and shrugged, throwing up his arms a little as if to say ‘I don’t know, don’t pay attention to me!’

Sherlock went over to the bed and sat on it, smoothing the blankets with his hands. He was going to say something, but now he couldn’t remember. Something about that silly story made him lose track. Oh! “I was going to say that I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I know you want to stay, so I was trying to arrange that. Why did you stop me?”

John licked his lip and shrugged, leaning against the wall. He wasn’t going to pretend like that wasn’t worrying, but he had to give just a little leeway. He’d keep a close eye on the man, definitely. “I just don’t want you to worry about me. I know you don’t...”

“I don’t know you.” He pursed his lips and stared down at his lap. It wasn’t right that John thought this way. “That’s not fair. I _want_ to know you, shouldn’t that be enough?” he whispered, swallowing. “I want to know so much, I want to hear everything and keep it locked up tight where no one can take it.”

His face fell. “Sherlock...” He didn’t mean it that way. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to force it, if you don’t feel it. I would understand.”

A short huff came from him. He shouldn’t have to understand. He had every right to need time, to want to have at least a day to absorb it all. It wasn’t fair that John had to go through with this. Why couldn’t he have chosen someone with a better brain? “I didn’t mean to go there. We’ve been through enough turmoil for a night, I’m simply... it’s _hard._ ” Sherlock’s expression hardened for a moment, but it turned soft just as quickly. “I hate that I cried in front of you.”

“You don’t usually,” John said. He stood up from the wall and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed, one leg hitched up, the other stretched out to touch the floor. “I’m not going to pretend like I don’t understand it; I do. It’s a pain in the arse and it’s humiliating, and it shouldn’t be, but that doesn’t change it. It’s probably worse because I’m not... I’m not the same person to you right now. I don’t know how to make you feel better about it.”

He was silent for a little while. There was a bit more searching back in time, previous memories and knowledge. He was constantly trying to define the things he knew and what was sucked up by those gaps. “I remember when I was a child I didn’t have much control over it and whenever anyone witnessed me upset, I wanted to hit them because they’d seen something they weren’t supposed to. Often I wished I could up and leave so I didn’t have to have that horrible truth blaring in my ears every time that I saw them. ‘This person knows what it looks like when I’m weak.’” Sherlock took a deep breath and sighed it out. “I make it sound so much more horrible than it was. It was just embarrassing, like pronouncing something wrong and being cut off as someone corrects you.”

John smiled and gave a nod, putting his hands on his lap. These conversations felt special, if somewhat empty. It let him know the man was trying to relate to him, to create some new connection to make up for the one he couldn’t grasp anymore. He found it bittersweet. “I remember one time I was reading from a textbook one time in class and I had to say ‘Baja, California’, but I pronounced the ‘j’ the way you normally do, instead of like an ‘h’. Someone corrected to me and I shrunk up. I hate reading out loud.”

He cringed and scrunched his nose. “That’s awful. You have my pity.” Sherlock looked over at him and smiled before he asked, “How many times have you told me that?”

“That makes twice.” John reached over and took his hand, watching his face to make sure that he was okay with it. Of course he was, he’d done it before, but something made him want to double-check now. “I’ve never had to tell you a story twice before, you know. There have been times where I might’ve repeated myself because I was reminiscing, but I don’t think you ever forgot anything about me before. Not directly, anyway - I did have to keep describing my co-workers to you every time I mentioned them.”

“I can see that. I tend to filter.” He looked down at their hands and tried not to be affected by it, just to enjoy it. “This is so odd to me,” he whispered as he squeezed his hand. “For you, it must be instinct, but I...” A bright grin curled at the corners of his lips. “My heart starts beating faster and I think I might blush, and I feel so giddy. Do you know if I felt this way the first time?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. I wish I did. I wish I could tell you.”

“It’s okay. I can’t expect you to know how I felt unless I told you.”

“It explains what you were talking about earlier in the kitchen before I kissed you.”

Sherlock felt his cheeks warm up and he looked away. The memory made him feel heated, and different. He didn’t know how to describe it. “That was... you’re good at that. I was worried about keeping up. I didn’t want to have to stop if I did it wrong.”

John chuckled softly. Normally he might cup his jaw and kiss his cheek, maybe with a loud “mwah” that usually made the man giggle out of embarrassment. Now... He sighed and brushed his thumb across his knuckles. “You don’t have to feel embarrassed if you end up crying in front of me,” he mumbled. “I know that doesn’t necessarily stop it. You could tell me to leave the room until you felt okay again, if that’s better.”

He grimaced. The mood wavered and crashed so easily. How did they manage to wander like this, without direction? “I don’t think we need to worry about that.”

What about John? When was he supposed to feel okay?

No matter how open they were in discussing these things, it always felt like they were hiding everything. Maybe they were. It never felt satisfying to talk about it. Was he to say he was frightened? It was obvious. Was John to tell him how he must mourn the loss of the man he’d spent so much time with? Sherlock knew it all too well, even if he hid behind humour and nurturing.

Slowly, he stood and left the man on the bed. Sherlock trailed his fingers along the wall as he approached the door, and then flipped the lights off. “I wish there was a bigger bed,” he mumbled, turning to look to the bed. It was pitch black but his eyes would adjust soon enough.

“Why?” John’s voice asked. It was a mere whisper – as if turning the lights off meant that silence demanded to be obeyed, and they mustn’t get caught defying it.

What an odd way to think about it.

He spent the next moment in a thoughtless sort of sorrow, every little breath a sigh. The morning had been grand. He should never have left – he should’ve continued to lie there and let the man hold him all he wanted. It had felt so tender compared to now, when they had to be hesitant with little touches.

So it turned out to be more thoughtful than he wanted to be. If his brain could damage itself just a little more...

Sherlock clenched his jaw when tears began welling in his eyes. At this point it was just starting to piss him off. “I was confused when I woke up. I didn’t know who you were or why you were wrapped around me, but for the brief moment before I actually woke up, I wanted to stay for eternity.” He forced a smile to himself and slowly walked to the bed, cautious in the darkness, before he sat beside John again. “Do you know the first thing I noticed about you?”

“No, what?” There was some shifting on the bed.

He bit his lip and closed his eyes. He needn’t struggle to bring back the memory, much like John’s kisses, or how he felt when he first looked at him awake. It was just a good feeling. “The first feeling was warmth. Then there was how your breath tickled against my neck... It felt _nice._ Comfortable. And then I was trying to determine my surroundings, and I saw one of your hands on my stomach. I knew that you were strong and that you did something intensive with your fingers at one point – calluses. You aren’t rough, not often at least. Often boxers will have a sagittal band injury after years of fighting, and there were no bruises on your knuckles either. On the middle finger of your left hand, you have a callus on the right side of the distal phalanx. That, and later I witnessed you flipping the eggs with your left hand – and the closet has your clothes all on the left side.” Sherlock furrowed his brow. “I’m rambling. The point is, you’re left-handed.”

John chuckled at him, and he couldn’t see it, but the man was grinning. “I love you,” he declared. Then he looked away, clenching his jaw. “Sorry.”

“We’ve discussed this.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t the same then. I was just done trying to make you relax and it hadn’t hit me yet. It’s unfair of me to expect to be able to say that.”

He stared at his silhouette and his expression turned stiff, deflated.

That wasn’t okay.

“Unacceptable,” Sherlock muttered.

“What? Sherlock, it’s fine. I’m... I don’t want you to feel pressured, all right?”

“Pressured? When I’ve kissed you at your behest? I barely brushed my lips against your cheek and then you met me with something I couldn’t comprehend. You were gentle too, against my lips, and I-“ He cut himself off and ran a hand through his curls, gripping a little. “And I was just a moment from leaping out of my own body in embarrassment when I was bare in front of you. The only thing that kept me from cowardice was the pressure to remain within my role. And...” There was heat in his cheeks. There had been for a little while now, but it was getting to the point where he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep talking. Acknowledging out loud that John had been naked not only in front of him, but a breath from being pressed up against him – it was far too much. He was barely getting used to the idea of holding hands with him. “I did things with you because I was pressured but I don’t... I regret the guise under which they were done. I regret that I had no knowledge of you, who touched me with this feather-like delicacy, because I was so sure that it would be more profound to me if I knew everything that had led up to the moment where asking if I’d like your assistance in washing myself was something within the parameters of _normality._ ”

Sherlock huffed out a breath and kept himself from saying anything else.

There was a hand on his knee now. “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be,” he whispered. It hurt too much.

John stroked his thumb over the denim of his jeans, along his kneecap. There was always this tension of nothing being enough. “Do you want to lie with me?” he asked, “Like this morning?”

He wanted nothing more. And yet he hung his head and blinked away tears, covering the man's hand with his own, then whispered, "I don't want to hurt you anymore." He swallowed sharply. "I see it in the way you look at me. This morning your eyes were bright and loving, and I felt like I did nothing to deserve such a cheerful and affectionate person. Now I only see desperation and forced smiles for my benefit. It's okay, I'm not an idiot. We can say it out loud.

This is killing you."

John's lips parted in protest, but found he couldn't lie. Sherlock would know, just as Greg said. He didn't want to depend on him for reassurance or strength. It was unfair to expect either. "I just want to help." He sniffled and grunted a little.

"I know." He smirked sadly at the unsatisfactory triumph in being the one to say it that time. "You are. I just can't watch you anymore. We can't... every moment it feels like we're holding back. We're frightened and hurt, and desperate to make each other believe that everything is fine, but you're a smart man, John - aren't you? I think so. I couldn't tolerate you otherwise."

He rolled his eyes. "Thanks."

"You know exactly what I mean. I don't imagine that's the first time I've said something like that." Sherlock sighed. "I want to lie with you, but I can't be held like this morning. I want... I want to protect you, but I can't do that if we keep enforcing the idea where I'm this vulnerable little calf that needs to be guided from the road."

John smiled a little. His way with words had always been endearing, even when he didn't mean anything romantic with them. "Are you saying you want to be the big spoon?"

He frowned. “I wonder what they call it when it’s multiple people. Is there a medium-sized spoon, or two? Do people in such large numbers even cuddle together or do they pair off? What if there’s an uneven number?” The thought lingered in his head or a moment. “I suppose if you must call it by such a _cutesy_ term. I have to get changed and brush my teeth first.”

John would need to as well. It made no sense to lock the door behind him and make the man wait, thus taking more time.

He should have been open about these things, those stupid little worries that nagged at the back of his head. He’d been naked in front of him, but things were different. It was a necessity so he didn’t let him know.

“You make me nervous,” he admitted quietly. “I never know what to do – whether things are okay even though I know that they must be.”

John squeezed his hand, and Sherlock’s eyes flew wide open when he leaned in to kiss his cheek.

His head reeled: it wasn’t new, why was he worrying, why was he surprised, they’d done it before, it was just something chaste, it wasn’t new, it wasn’t new, it wasn’t new! And yet he felt like an _imbecile_ even still.

“I promise I’ll try to make sure you’re comfortable.”

But he shouldn’t have found it a necessity.

Why couldn’t John stop reminding him of how he hurt him?

“Stop it,” he growled. He let of his hand and launched up from the bed, scrambling with the wall to find the switch again. The light blinded him immediately after he flipped it, and he had to squint to try and adjust.

The man stared at him and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Guilt flooded through both of them, but there wasn’t any going back. “I’m sorry,” John said gruffly, his hands gripping at the edge of the bed. “I should’ve asked.” If Sherlock could be consistent, he would be able to do better. He didn’t _want_ to make him uncomfortable, but that seemed to be the result anyway. He just wanted to make him feel cared about, but he apparently didn’t want that. “Tell me what to do, Sherlock. Do you want me to leave? I can. Just _tell me,_ ” he urged him.

“I’m not upset about you kissing me. I want you to stop making me feel like a monster.” Sherlock lifted his hands and brushed the curls out of his face, leaving his fingers threaded through his hair as he tried to think. “Every time I say something I feel guilty. All it is, all it _ever_ feels like is ‘You took away the man I cared about and you’re _destroying me_ by looking identical to him.’” He shook his head and let his hands drop. “At least if it were a consequence of my actions, I could change it. All I’m left with is your insufferable patience and understanding. It does nothing but bring me guilt. Such a useless emotion, truly, only invented to make people do good things to avoid it.”

There was a deep sigh. “I just didn’t want to make you worried. You have enough to deal with as it is, and...”

“I have _very little_ to deal with, John. All I have is heaps of useless emotions, time that I have nothing to do but spend waiting as everyone tugs me around: poke, prod, question, inform, give mindless generic reassurance that I would need to be an idiot to truly believe in. I have no reason to believe I will be okay, yet everyone insists that this must be a truth. ‘Sherlock Holmes will not die – only because people need him not to!’” He giggled at idea and threw up his arms. “This doesn’t take any intelligence or clever wit to get over. It is the worst form of inconvenience: something that will not be thwarted by willpower.”

It took a while, but after a minute he could get what he was saying. He always communicated in this brash and confused manner when he was upset. Sometimes it sounded like he was blaming someone just because they were involved with the problem. John just smirked and shook his head. “You keep saying you’re not the same person just because you don’t know who you were before today. Believe me, you’re exactly the bloody same, and it’s so... It’s not frustrating to deal with, it’s frustrating to watch. And I can know how it feels or sympathise, but it doesn’t help you really. All you just said – you’re angry with me because of how you feel around me. Is that about right?”

He pursed his lips, but gave a firm nod. It was hard to justify it then. He sounded like a child.

John blew out a huff of air and looked up at the ceiling. “You’re happier when we’re joking. Maybe we’re just focusing on it too much. We keep talking about it, but it doesn’t solve anything. Maybe that’s why it feels like we’re holding things back. Usually it gets fixed when everyone’s done being upset, but we don’t get to have that feeling right now. Forcibly shoving the reality in our faces doesn’t do either of us a favour.” He bit his cheek and shrugged before he looked back at Sherlock. The man just seemed on edge with no way of getting out of it. “You’re mad because there’s a problem you can’t fix. Sherlock, that is utterly, completely, typical _you._ You always have to have control of the situation, unless there’s nothing to control. We can sit and watch telly and you’re not tense at all, but the moment something falls into your lap, you obsess about it until you’ve started following some weird goddamn plan of yours. And of course it always works, because you’re a genius. It’s just so frustrating that you never just relax when we’re in a tough situation, you have to plan and learn absolutely everything about it just so you can feel like you have control of it, even when you can’t. _I’m_ always the person that has to be the cool one that makes sure you chill the fuck out, because otherwise we’re both just going to get too frustrated or feel trapped, and it doesn’t do anything to help.”

He continued, “It’s okay to feel like you’re missing pieces. You are. But if you care about me like you say you do, like I can _see_ that you do, don’t feel bad about missing things. I don’t blame you. And yeah, you not having everything right at the moment sucks. It hurts, I can’t do anything to stop it, and I can’t make you believe that it’s fine because you’re not an idiot – not in that way. You don’t have to do anything to earn me being here, all right? There’s nothing to prove. You cared enough to stay in a place you didn’t recognise, to tell me, to let me take you here when I know you hate being the patient in a hospital. Me being angry or frustrated doesn’t work here, so just let me take care of you. That’s all I can do. In the meantime... I’m okay with being distracted. You seem happier when you let yourself get off-track too. I was your friend first before we ever got involved. I can be that now.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his jaw clenched, and he just closed his eyes. “I’ve done it again,” he sighed, and slumped against the wall. “That was undeserved, and you have my apologies. You know me much more than I was prepared for, because I thought there must be this glaring difference between me and the person who did all those things for you. Turns out I’m the same miserable sulk.”

“You’re not-“

“I’m joking, don’t defend me.” He smiled a little. “I only say that because it’s how I feel now. In my head, I have this voice that says ‘you’re being annoying, you’re whining, you need to shut up’, and it’s partly true. I have a hard time justifying whining because I hate it, even if I’m in a position where no one could blame me.”

“More the suffer-in-silence type.”

“Exactly.” He sighed and stood up straight again, walking over to the suitcase. He unzipped it and began retrieving some of his clothes. “I want to know about you, and us. I was going to ask tonight but I don’t think it’s wise to invite dreadful emotions after all our dealings with them today. Instead I’ll take what you said into account and try to find something funny on the telly. Let you distract me. I think it’d make you feel achieved in assisting me with my mental state.” When he stood up, he chuckled at himself. “I am quite verbose, aren’t I? Thank you for pointing it out, I can’t _not_ notice it now.”

John winced in a guilty smile. “Sorry.”

He shook his head in dismissal. “It’s fine. I care about you.”

The man bit his lip. It felt unfair that they agreed to that restriction. “If you want to tell me that you love me... I would be happy with that.”

“I wanted to differentiate between caring for you and being romantically enraptured. I want you to be well and I’m-” He cleared his throat. “I’m attracted to you, I simply don’t know what to do with it yet. I don’t remember doing this before.”

“I’ll be patient, then.” John beamed at him, and something about it just made him go shy.

He hated shy. It was emasculating and it felt cowardly, but some part of it felt good with him. He didn’t have to think that he would ruin it all, just that he might be embarrassed if the man had to correct him. Maybe that was a good thing. Sherlock set the clothes on top of the suitcase and took a little breath. He wanted to kiss him, like he did before. John made him feel wonderful.

He bit his lip and walked over to him, watching his feet as he stood in front of the man. John’s feet were perched on the bed frame, his knees brushing against Sherlock’s thighs. “I don’t like being nervous,” he said with a wry smile. “I’m aware of how obvious that is, as it’s a universal truth-”

“Do you want me?” The man’s eyes were soft and questioning. He didn’t know the answer.

He opened his mouth to answer, but found he couldn’t. “What does that mean?” he asked, his voice a mere breathy whisper.

He let out a quiet chuckle and reached for his hands, which Sherlock let him take without question. His thumbs smoothed over the back of his hands, which were a little cold. “I don’t mean sex. I wouldn’t push that on you. I’m not interested in making you feel like you need to do things like that to make me happy. You being here is more than good enough.” He brought a hand to his cheek and nuzzled into his palm. “If you don’t get your memories back, I’ll be okay. I’m hoping that doesn’t happen, but I have to think about now. I can’t neglect you in the hopes that you will be here another time. You are here, with me, and you’re well enough to stand. So if you want to kiss me, or to hug me or hold me, I’d be grateful for just little things like that – little things I love, but which must mean infinitely more to you.”

Sherlock blinked back a few tears and sniffled, averting his eyes. “I hate that you can make me so eager to weep.”

“But what’s your answer?”

He shook his head and brushed his fingers to the underside of his jaw, not even marvelling at how he could touch him. He couldn’t remove himself from the situation by analysing it anymore. “Of course I want you. You’re constantly reminding me of why I must have chosen you.” He licked his lower lip before he committed to a notion, and hesitantly he leaned in. His own breath was ever evident, but he saw how the man’s lips parted, and he couldn’t make himself nervous enough to stop.

It was shattering in a slow, subtle way. His lips were barely grazing against John’s and it was so easy to hear the hitch in his own breath in the otherwise silent room. His fingertips were more firm in cupping his jaw, some desperate way to beg that it wasn’t going to end soon. His heart raced and skipped, and he eagerly kissed him, his eyes shutting tight.

It was acceptance. Understanding. _You’re not still all here but I am and I love you._

Even though he took in breaths every time their lips parted, it wasn’t enough. He had to part from him, but their foreheads were still resting against one another. A stupid, silly grin spread on his face when he opened his eyes, a light pant to his breath. John was smiling too, and it felt _good,_ not like he was taking things away or killing him. “I think if I keep kissing you like this I might either do something rash or get embarrassed – perhaps both.”

A warm chuckle left him. “I’m okay with stopping now. We can cuddle and watch crap telly. Sound good?”

“Absolutely,” he beamed with a gleeful giggle, but he didn’t move away. Stroking his thumb across his jaw, he realised how easy it was to be here. He never felt that he wanted him gone or that it was wrong to like it, he just struggled with not being whole. He let his gaze fall down so he wasn’t staring at him. “How did we meet?”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear any stories tonight.”

“Well unless this one’s utterly depressing, I want to hear it.”

“I can’t deny you that.” John sighed softly and sat back, looking up at him. “I want to lie down, though, all right? It’s getting late and I don’t want to keep you up all night before they look at that brilliant brain of yours.”

Sherlock just snorted and rolled his eyes. “ _Broken_ brain, I believe you meant,” he replied as he pulled away, going over to snatch his clothes up.

“What did I say about that? Don’t you start that shit.”

“Joke, John,” he said with another eyeroll. “I thought you wanted to use humour.”

“To distract, not insult yourself.” He didn’t sound that worried, though, just didn’t like to hear bad things being said about the person he cared about. Sherlock could get behind that.

“Mm.” He went to the bathroom and shut the door. It was poor humour, he would admit, but he seemed capable of little else.

Just a moment without the man made his mind calm in the oddest of ways.

John didn’t aggravate him, he made him frightened. Fear wasn’t something he was used to.

He reached behind him and turned on the light, stepping over to the sink so he could place his clothes there. He fought to latch onto the happy feeling. It wouldn’t last forever, but he needed it now.

With his slender fingers, he grasped the hem of his shirt and began pulling it over his head, curls dipping in front of his face as he did so. He turned the shirt right-side-out before setting it on the other side of the sink, catching a glimpse of himself. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and blew out a long, weary breath. Exhaustion was the main thing that haunted him now.

Looking at himself, as he did before, there was no sense of alienation. He knew without a doubt that his reflection was accurate, and that nothing in it was odd, but there were things he didn’t remember about it. He swallowed as he trailed his fingers down his chest and stopped when he felt a little divot. Smoothed skin, not the same texture as the rest of his unmarred flesh. It was undoubtedly a scar from a bullet, but it wasn’t like John’s was. John’s was an exit wound, when he was facing him. He didn’t get a chance to see the back of his shoulder.

He accepted this as a part of his body without halt. It was fact. The only question was how it came to be. It was close enough to his heart to be a failure to aim properly.

This wasn’t the only place he had an unexplained scar. There were others, and he hadn’t thought to ponder them the first time he saw himself. Sherlock looked down at his abdomen and smoothed his hands over his skin, and two other circular dents met his fingers. One towards his right, just a little ways below his ribs, and another that spread out a little with faint lines where his skin must have split. The latter was on his left side, most likely an exit wound.

He turned around and looked over his shoulder to see if he could find a scar where it entered him.

Almost the entirety of his upper back was covered in these odd, curved markings. He managed to find the bullet wound on his side, but he was far more preoccupied with the rest of his scars.

Blunt object, cylindrical on the end used to hit him.

Some scars were straighter.

A wrench, perhaps?

It didn’t shock him. Why?

Why, if he couldn’t remember, would he not be shaking in the jolt of anguish one might normally feel?


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock decided he needed to stop inspecting himself when he could no longer estimate the amount of time he’d been in the bathroom. His fingers curled and dipped into the shallow depressions of his skin, and he felt nothing but wonder. With a sigh, he turned and looked into his own eyes again, turning and cocking his head as he sought out other markings. There were none. He was lucky enough to have his face untouched by whatever had damaged him over time.

He pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms over his boxer briefs and brushed his teeth.

His mind was clouded with nonsensical things – any other version of himself might laugh and say that he was being pathetic, except the one he was missing. He’d like to think that one was romantic and soft. A little more accepting than he knew himself to be. John’s question, “Do you want me?” lingered in his head.

It wasn’t the sexual connotation, he knew that well enough. He felt so distant from that possibility it actually felt like he was being denied something, even though he was doing it himself. When he thought about John, he didn’t consider roughness. A lot of it was the desperate clinging and whimpering that made his chest hurt. Even that sounded lustful – it wasn’t. It was emotion, and he felt helpless against it. He wished he could escape for a while to fix it himself. The thought that he couldn’t was not only odd, it was terrifying. So long he’d spent with the mind-over-matter perspective, he thought himself the ultimate power when it came to his own body.

Needing control, just like John said. It was eerie how accurate the man’s observations were. He knew that they were based on time spent with him, but he didn’t exactly have the same perspective. He couldn’t say that John always did something because there was no dependable length of time to draw from.

All of it could be summed up to feeling stupid.

He didn’t doubt his intelligence, but that was the only description he could give. There were things he should know that he did not. It felt precisely like being stupid, as he had felt on the rare occasion in school when he was given questions he didn’t have the materials to answer. Panic, hatred, and fear most of all, it bubbled beneath his skin – needing hourly doses of sentimental reassurance to be coerced away. Then it came back up.

Fact was nowhere to be found. He could tell someone whether a function was one-to-one, recite the periodic table of elements, describe Stephen Hawking’s theory on time travel, but he couldn’t say when he met the man outside this room. He couldn’t recall if his brother ever told him about his plans to propose, or even if it was _him_ that proposed rather than Greg. Everything else was cloudy. He’d point out other things that he didn’t know rather than grasping onto these torturous things, but wasn’t aware of anything else. These were just in front of him.

He shook his head at himself and plucked his shirt from the sink, pulling it over his head. This state of mind was uncomfortable. If it wasn’t despair, it was furious aimlessness. Sherlock leaned forward and braced his hands on the sink, closing his eyes.

There had to be something to help.

_Lying on the carpet in front of a book, he felt calm. The carpet was beige and prickly – cheap. They couldn’t afford much back then and London was expensive, the price of the city’s beauty and reputation. He felt sick lying on the floor, but it didn’t make him get up to go to his bed._

_A dog was slumped over his back, head hanging over his side. Redbeard’s breath was this constant set of tiny sighs that kept a contented smile on his face as he flipped to the next page. He couldn’t remember the book word for word, never felt the desire to, as he’d written it off when the next few in the series turned into a dramatic downpour of stupid and unnecessary events. He would’ve done it better, he remembered thinking. He hated the author for making everyone sad and not helping them. He just made them worse. Good people turned bad and bad people were grudgingly good, untrustworthy._

_That wasn’t very fair._

_Outside the room there was muttering and the occasional angry outburst. He didn’t listen, but he could still hear the hiss of the “s”’s. Someone was upset._

_A lot of people were upset these days, but it was okay, because they weren’t upset at him. They always apologised to him, like they’d done something wrong. Had they? He didn’t quite understand that._

_It was quiet as far as he was concerned, and he was warm. Things were okay._

Lifting his head again, Sherlock blew out a long sigh and held his hand over his chest as he sought to feel the thrumming of his heart. It was slow, calm. He was okay.

A small smile spread on his face and he didn’t bother to leash it. He was alive, a wondrous thing. He might be confused and sometimes he was alone, but he had people who were helping him get through it. He had someone that loved him even if he didn’t know exactly why. It wasn’t the worst situation he’d been in – far from it.

He collected his clothes and left his toothbrush on the counter, opening the door. The lights were off again, and John was lying in the bed. The man’s eyes were fixed on the telly, bright colours paired with childish giggling. Sherlock frowned and stepped further into the room, watching the screen. It was just a simple cartoon for children, characters giggling at a joke he’d missed.

“Hey,” John said with a wide grin as he muted the telly. “You were in there for a while. You okay?”

He nodded, licking his lower lip as he stacked his clothes on top of the suitcase. It’d been opened since he’d left it – John changing into more comfortable clothing. “I’m better than okay,” he told him as he walked up to the bed. His fingers brushed against the edge of it, and he pinched the bed sheet in a mindless fidget as he thought for his next words. “I’m grateful to have you here. You help.”

He sighed softly and tilted his head as he watched him. “I love you, Sherlock. Come here,” he whispered, patting the spot beside him. “We can ride out worried insomnia together.”

He chuckled at him and tugged at the sheets, pulling them from being tucked underneath the mattress. “I like how you talk.” Sherlock lifted his legs and pressed his knee into the mattress as he clambered into the bed, sitting beside him. He pulled the pillow out from underneath himself and pushed it up against the headboard so he could lean against it.

John bit his lip and watched him for a second before he scooted in closer to him. He didn’t think to ask about it, just pulled his arm over his shoulders and nestled into his chest. His cheek was pressed up against the cloth of his t-shirt and he sighed against him, putting a hand above his heart. “Is this okay?”

Immediately he was aware of the heat on his body, where they touched. He fought not to go shy, to just enjoy the new sense of vulnerability that came with this. It didn’t feel like protection, it felt like he was being _allowed_ that feeling. Somehow he didn’t rebel. “Yes,” he breathed, looking down at him. He lifted his hand to stroke his hair, marvelling at the colours that made up his weathered blonde.

He didn’t look old. He looked like he smiled too much – and he loved that.

Sherlock blinked and licked his lips when he realised he was crying. “Ah... I think I’m happy.” He chuckled at himself and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand.

The man looked up at him with wide eyes and laughed with him, moving his hand up to cup his cheek. “That’s good, I like that. I really do,” he mumbled as he brushed his thumb across his cheek, a small breath leaving him. “What made you happy? I want to do more of that.”

He rolled his eyes and sniffled, though he couldn’t help but grin like an idiot. “I feel like an adolescent when we speak like this. ‘I like this. This is good. This makes me feel happy.’”

“That’s fine, love.” John pressed his lips to his chest, not caring about the cloth that was between him and Sherlock’s skin. “Believe me, I don’t care about that. I just like hearing you think out loud. I like hearing that I make you feel happy.”

He hummed in response. He’d said “I think” because it surprised him. He didn’t expect this pillowy feeling in his chest, or that John’s tiny gestures would affect him so much. “You look like you smile a lot. I like to believe that it’s because of me. And your hair...” Sherlock laughed as he brushed his hand through it. “It’s grey and blonde and I think there’s some red in there – I love it. You look very nice.” He pursed his lips at himself. “Handsome.”

God, he was precious. John gazed at him in awe and just shook his head, sighing out a happy breath. “Thank you. You are too, Sherlock. I’ll refrain from going into detail, I don’t want to embarrass you, but you are _very_ beautiful.”

Sherlock coughed a little and furrowed his brow in this firm expression as his cheeks became tinged with this light pink. “Thank you,” he muttered stiffly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight. “Please tell me this will fade. This is utterly embarrassing. Was I like this with you at first?”

“I promise it goes away.”

The man sounded like he was giggling. He tried not to take offence, and eventually he made an even angrier face combined with a childish pout. “Fine. Good. Thank you. Distract me.”

“Do you want to hear about how we met now?”

He nodded, and John smiled again.

John looked at the telly for a moment before he grabbed the remote and turned it off, settling into Sherlock again. He waited for his eyes to adjust but it felt like he was truly blind now that they were in the late evening. A comfortable shiver ran along his spine when the man's fingers played with the hairs on the nape of his neck. What was curiosity for the detective was a guilty pleasure for him. "I was about a month or so into living in London, after I was discharged. Wounded in combat."

"Your shoulder," he whispered, his lip twitching as he swallowed. The rage within him was irrational and he tried to ignore it, but he couldn't lie to himself: he would experience a definite morbid bliss in killing the man that hurt John. He wasn't pleased with himself for having those thoughts. He only hoped that the man was dead already.

He nodded into his chest and wrapped an arm around his waist. "Among other things. Psychosomatic limp, tremors in my hand... I couldn't sleep well for a long while. I ran into an old friend of mine, Mike Stamford. We talked for a while over coffee and I admitted to having some difficulty with money. He suggested I get a flatshare and..." He chuckled softly. "I said, 'Who'd want me for a flatmate?' He laughed a bit more than I expected him to, and when I asked him why, he told me I was the second person to say that to him that day."

He frowned. "Obviously I was the first. We met by mere coincidence? How boring-"

"I'm not done!" John giggled as he smacked his side gently. "Don't do that. It's my favourite thing ever, and you were amazing."

He paused; how rude of him. This was important to John, and to himself. He supposed... coincidence made it more impressive. It wasn’t something that he was able to create just because he was capable of it. "Apologies," he muttered. "Truly. Please go on."

"It's okay, I haven't gotten to the good part yet." John hummed and closed his eyes as he thought back to that time. It was so long ago but he remembered it well, almost like he could replay it in his head. "Anyway, Mike brought me to the lab in the hospital where you liked to do your experiments. We went to school there when we were younger, and he started teaching while I was still in Afghanistan. So we walked in and you were in front of one of your experiments. You asked to borrow a phone, and Mike didn't have his, so I offered mine up. You went over and I handed it to you - and it wasn't half a second before you asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'"

He furrowed his brow and squinted his eyes at the faint figure that rest on him. He supposed he must have come to the conclusion based on a number of details, but he couldn't fathom which. "Would I be correct in assuming that this Mike hadn't mentioned you at all before you visited?"

“You would. I thought that at first, but it was just you reading everything off of me. After you gave me my phone back, you asked me what I thought of the violin.” John smirked to himself and licked his lip as he tried to remember the exact words. “I didn’t know what you meant, so you continued. ‘I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end... would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.’ It was amazing. And within the next few seconds, you just spewed all this information about me – being invalided, my limp, my therapist. Even my sister, though originally you thought she was my brother.”

“Sister? What’s her name? Did I know her?” Sherlock asked, a bullet-like speed in the pace of his speech. At the first glimpse of new information he just wanted to grasp it all and absorb it.

He chuckled and patted his chest a little. “Calm down, I’ll tell you. I swear, sometimes you’re like a child who’s had too much sugar. It’s adorable.” He sighed, biting his cheek for a little while. “Her name is Harriet, but we call her Harry. It’s why you mistook her for a man – her name was engraved on the back of my phone. She’d given it to me when I got back, and originally it was a gift from her ex-wife. I wasn’t that into the idea of asking for her help, especially after that. Harry... she’s had a problem with drinking for a long while now. We never got on well, but I had a hard time talking to her after she made it clear that her own wife wasn’t worth giving it up. She kept promising that she’d do it, but she made a big fuss about doing it on her own, and she wouldn’t go to a clinic. A few times I managed to actually help wean her off the stuff, but it never stuck. She always found another excuse. A birthday party, some minor accomplishment.”

John’s voice had fallen from his joyous, giggly teasing to a cheerless whisper as he talked. It made the air go heavy.

Sherlock’s fingers slowed in brushing through the man’s hair, now something a little more sad and soothing. He sat there for a while staring at the opposite wall, blinking slowly. “You deserve better than that,” he uttered in a croaky, low voice. “Do you still talk to her?”

He shook his head and nuzzled into his abdomen as he swallowed. “Not often. Sometimes on the holidays, birthdays. I was in this spiral and I kept trying to fix it, just make her stop, but...” He sniffled. “One night you sat me down and I saw you struggle as you tried to keep everything together, not to shout. Your voice was hoarse and your eyes were red... later that night, you even had a migraine. You asked me to stop because you didn’t want to watch me keep getting hurt. You said it hurt to watch me get my hopes up, and it only managed to make you angry that you couldn’t fix it for me.” John wiped at his cheek with the sleeve of his jumper and blew out a soft, steady breath. “I told her that I wasn’t going to try and keep helping her if she wouldn’t go to a clinic. I was throwing away my time and my happiness to fix it for her when she didn’t seem to want that. She cursed me out and I took that as my answer.”

“I’m sorry.” He sighed. He didn’t think much during these moments, just listened. The pain of John’s voice echoed in his chest as he took it in, and a large part of him wanted to fix things for him – like he had apparently wanted back then. He suspected a large part of his feelings towards John in stressful moments were of that mindset, wishing and wanting to control the situation so he didn’t have to feel any pain. It was disappointing that he couldn’t, but such was the way of things. The desire counted just as much as the action would have.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, smiling a little. “It was a long while ago. I’m grateful. If I kept going on like that, I would’ve just made myself miserable, and you too. I love my sister, even now, but I don’t think that she’s worth throwing away my future with you.” John lifted his head as he looked up at him. “I didn’t mean to make the whole conversation sad. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”

“No, it’s...” Sherlock trailed off. He was running out of words today. They hung in the air and he wasn’t quite sure how to get them through his mouth. “Necessary. You don’t need to hide the sad parts – it would only be a lie.”

He nodded. “True. I just don’t enjoy this.”

“Understandable. Worry not.” He lifted his hand and groaned as he tried to make his brain work. “There has been a _lot_ of talking today. Too much. Hard to think. Is it okay if we watch telly until exhaustion finally overcomes us?”

John chuckled as he sat up, fumbling with the blankets to find the remote again. “Absolutely,” he murmured when he found it, turning on the telly. “This okay?” He gestured to the cartoon, evidently another episode of what was playing earlier.

He gave a hum of confirmation and shifted a little further down on the bed so his head could rest on the pillow. To his delight, John curled up next to him, his head settled on his shoulder. Sherlock focused on the screen and he found himself easily amused by the immature humour. After a long day, it wasn’t very hard for him to escape into it.

It was mindless relaxation. The short episodes came and went until a different series started – it was hard to understand the plot of that one, but he hardly cared. Somewhere in the midst of the fifth one, John was hugging his left arm to his chest and it was clear in his breathing patterns that the doctor was asleep. He smiled to himself at the paralyzed comfort this brought.

He lost count after the eighth. His eyelids drooped and though he tried to keep them open, his body wouldn’t comply. When they finally closed and he felt sleep coming to him, he whispered, “I love you. Thank you for being here. It’d be scarier without you.”


	12. Chapter 12

In the early morning, he was half-asleep.

_There was a lively strumming, and people tapping their feet to the beat of it. He swayed to the music with many others. Hearts skipped and they all twirled in their glittery dresses, their silk capes that brushed across the floor behind them._

_A chandelier in the centre of the ceiling brought a joyous, yellow glow to the room, every object casting a shadow. The champagne flowed and seemed composed of shimmery gold as some guests drank from delicate flutes._

_The edges of the room were populated by some small groups sipping from glasses and holding their pinkies up as they nibbled on various fruits and chocolates. They giggled and declared things with a certain exuberance: sweet, social inebriation making them either unaware or uncaring about their own volumes. Ladies could be seen touching the forearms of their men, flirting coyly with rosy pink cheeks. Their partners smiled genuinely, spirits uplifted as they were appreciated for their wit and charm rather than their status._

_He was nondescript, just a body. It spun and circled about the room, cloth trailing behind him._

_As they went about their dance, they hooked arms for nothing more than a moment, constantly trading partner for partner in the hopes of finding the person they started off with – or the person they wanted to stop with. It was a tangled web, impossible, but how could it be? Their feet moved in mere patterns, organised art, until they could split off and create something intimate with the one they settled with._

Something interrupted him. He tried to chase after his dream, but details faded fast.

_Surrounding him were tile walls, cabinets, cookware, chairs. He was sitting on a dining table._

_In the chairs sat guests. They enclosed him, picking at their food while their collective gaze was cast down at their laps. Some prodded at green beans with their forks, others sipped at their water – all detesting the presence of their meal._

_All were either too reluctant or miserable to say anything. On occasion, one of them parted their lips. He thought that they might say something but was always left with disappointment when their lips pursed back together. It wasn’t fright that sewed their lips shut; it was pressure. They sought to say the right thing, to be remembered for the correct words... for anything less would be a crime._

_“What is this?” he thought himself asking, for he could not hear the sound._

_There was no response. No one even glanced up to acknowledge that he’d said anything at all – that he even existed._

_A few minutes later, someone slowly pushed their plate away from themselves and crossed their arms on the table, resting their head there. Sherlock couldn’t tell who it was, just some vague figure._

_“I can’t believe he’s gone,” they mumbled._

“Sherlock,” a soft voice spoke. Fingers brushed against his forehead, smoothing hair back out of his face. “I know it’s sort of early, but they want to give you a scan as soon as possible.”

Lips pressed to his forehead and Sherlock shut his eyes tighter. He was still, so little energy running through him. He wanted to pout into his pillow at the injustice of waking up.

“Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?” His voice was panicked, the poor man already having been subjected to so much. Sherlock could hardly blame him for the coddling... he only wanted it to be over a temporary illness, like a cold.

“Hospital,” he rasped, scrunching his nose. “I know as much about you as I did last night.” His attempt at humour was paired with a pitiful smirk.

A little huff of breath was the reply. John brushed his hair behind his ear, his fingers tracing down his jaw. “I know you’re probably exhausted, but they want to get a scan. Can you manage to get up?”

He nodded slowly, sighing as he opened his eyes to a squint. “Just two minutes. Need to wake up... You’ll be there?”

“Of course. Absolutely.”

“Okay.” Sherlock took in a deep breath and observed him. It was slow, but he recognised the redness in his eyes. John had been crying.

He swallowed at that and reached up to cover John’s hand with his own, just holding it there. The warmth was something to seek out in these cold months, and they were only at the beginning of it. He imagined later in the year he could see himself snuggling his shivery, desperate body up to him, moaning in the sheer comfort. He decided not to ask about the crying and gave his wrist a gentle peck. “It’s nice waking up next to you,” he breathed, the beginnings of a sweet smile forming.

John smiling back just made it bigger.

“It’s nice waking up next to you too.” He stroked his cheek, a little sigh leaving him. “Do you know what time you fell asleep?”

Sherlock shook his head and looked at the telly. Either John turned it off or it had a sleep timer. “I didn’t sleep much, though.” He settled into the bed more and continued gazing at him. He couldn’t ignore the comfort that flowed through him, the fact that he didn’t feel awkward about it. Lying next to someone like this was something he’d wanted ever since he’d gotten out of the impulsive sex drive of puberty, when he couldn’t be consistent to save his life. With reluctance he pulled his leg back and stretched it out as he turned, his toes clenching at the freezing tile. He gave his wrist another kiss and got up, smiling to himself over the feeling in his heart. “I take it I’m not supposed to be dressed up for this.”

“No, there’s a...” John paused for a second as he sat up, grunting some. “There’s a gown on the night stand, they want you to put that one on.”

Sherlock nodded and held in a yawn as he trudged over the two steps necessary to get to it. It unfolded to the floor, the same minty blue as all the leather on the swivel chairs. “Oh, good, it’s not one of those humiliating ones that show off your arse,” he muttered. “I don’t recall having a PET scan before. Do you know if I’ve had one?”

“Um. Yeah, they wanted to check on you after you came back.”

“Came back?”

He licked his lip. “You know how Lestrade was talking about that case with the children?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, after that, you left for a while. Two years. I don’t know exactly what happened while you were gone, but you were torn up when you came back. Sometime after we got back in touch, you asked me to come with you while you got some tests done. ‘Need your medical expertise to assess the damage’. You gave that sort of speech, but I knew you just wanted me around.”

John sighed and brought the blanket over his leg more, smoothing it along his thigh. It didn’t feel right to omit things from their past, but he didn’t know how to tell him some of this stuff.

He couldn’t tell the poor man how he left him to hurt; he wouldn’t understand it now. And he wouldn’t want to know about all the stuff that went on while he thought he was dead. John would save him from those things if he could. It didn’t paint either of them in a flattering light.

Sherlock frowned at himself and folded the gown over his arm, trailing his hand along the wall as he approached the bathroom. “Did I do that often? Lie to you to get you to be near?”

John smiled. It was one of those little insecure wonders. Sherlock did that... he was unconscious in the way he treated people sometimes, how he could make them feel, and then he’d be surprised (even hurt) to be confronted with the results. John couldn’t blame him – he was too stuck in his own head to notice sometimes. The good thing was that he learned to counteract it, sent out little signals to say ‘Hey, you’re important to me.’

“You did,” he replied, “but it was sort of a joke. I always knew and never said anything. You’re subtle, and it was easy to miss at first, but I like it.”

Listening to him talk about them wasn’t so much odd as it was reassuring. He got to know that John didn’t feel dejected, which was most of what he worried about now beside his own head. Sometimes it hurt to know that he was making him miss out on things, but he wouldn’t deny him the right to talk about them together. “That’s good.” Sherlock waved his hand to excuse himself to the bathroom.

The doctor was left on the bed, rubbing at his arms to fight the chill. The difficulty in this wavered over time. When talking about the sweet moments, profound and strong, he’d probably choke up. Sherlock was still here, though. He still cared.

It could be a lot worse.

He reached over to the night stand and plucked his phone from the wood. Unlocking it revealed two messages.

 

From Greg: _Told the Yard that you two were on another one of your little holidays, so no one will be pressing me to bring any cases over. We’ll be visiting around noon. Mycroft has something he seems to think might help, no idea what it is, exactly._

From Mycroft: _Symptoms are not consistent with dementia or Alzheimer’s. Amnesia is doubtable as he has had no recent injuries or traumas, but it remains the most likely. Send photos of the PET scan when possible._

 

John bit his cheek and locked his phone again after turning his notifications off. Soon enough people would start trying to contact him after being unable to get a hold of Sherlock. If the man didn’t remember them or their numbers, he’d have to explain.

Leaving London sounded like a good idea right now.

As he changed out of his bottoms and into the jeans from the night previous, he wondered about their future. He’d cry in relief if Sherlock was okay. What if he was okay, but couldn’t get his memories back? He knew it’d be hard, even though he could live through it. It wasn’t a question of whether he would continue being with him or not. That was up to Sherlock.

He snarled at himself for thinking about that. Bad idea.

Thank god Sherlock left the bathroom at that moment. John finished tugging up his trousers and glanced behind him. The man didn’t pay him any mind, only looked at the gown with a discriminatory eye.

“I always hated these things,” he scowled. He looked over to John. “How long will this take?”

“Why, do you have somewhere to be?” John asked, smirking as he started putting on his shoes.

“No, but I’m not relishing the idea of lying down and waiting as someone scrutinises sections of my brain.”

“Well, they have you sit with an IV for an hour, and then the actual test... Maybe an hour, half hour.”

Two hours of idleness. His face went sour.

The doctor looked at him with a soft sigh, leaning against the bed a little. “Sorry, Sherlock. I know you hate the hospital. But if they don’t find anything, we can go home and continue with... whatever we need to do from there.”

He pursed his lips in a little pout and then blew out a breath. “Yes, fine,” he said in forfeit, and opened the door, walking into the hall to wait for him.

John hurried to catch up to him, taking his hand. Sherlock seemed to be checking out when they were walking the halls, so it was better just to lead him. They were to go to Radiology, where they’d be put in a room to wait as the IV did its job.

Sherlock looked at the floor as his socked feet flattened against it with every step. There was no point in putting shoes on, he’d be taking them off soon enough. He wasn’t feeling panicky or stressed so much as he was melancholy. It was still better than the night before. He moved closer to John and squeezed his hand.

“Maybe you should find someone to talk to,” he suggested, though he didn’t really like the idea. He needed to be fair to him even if it meant a little sacrifice. “Do you have any friends?”

John swallowed, but made no protest. The thought of leaving him right now wasn’t attractive, but Sherlock didn’t need him to be around all the time. He was more of an independent person, okay to be alone, but definitely enjoying whatever time they had together. He loved that about him. “I do, but they’re not exactly... I don’t know. I don’t want to share this stuff with other people if I don’t have to. I know you wouldn’t like it much either.”

“The thought of strangers knowing that I’m weak does spike some anger, I’ll admit.”

“You’re very weird about privacy.”

He hummed. “How so?”

“You asked me to take some pictures of you and use those specifically if I ever wanted to show you off to someone. It wasn’t a double-standard, though – you have some of me for the same reason.” He stopped at a door and held it open, their hands dropping as they passed through one at a time. John chuckled and bit his lip for a moment.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and stopped, looking down at him. “What?”

“Hm?”

“You laughed.”

“Oh.” He smiled, rubbing at his jaw. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll tell you when we’re waiting for the IV. We’ll have a lot of time to talk then.” At the man’s glowering concern he assured him, “It’s a good thing.”

This waiting room was noticeably smaller, as few people would need to be scanned at any one point in the day. Sherlock allowed John to go up to the desk for him, hanging back some. He brushed his curls back with both hands and yawned, trying to wake himself up a little more.

The fact that he’d been able to have a conversation at all was amazing, probably linked to his half-sleep in the few hours before being woken up. His dreams were foggy and difficult to remember, yet the mood of the second one remained.

John touching his arm brought him out of thought. “Hey, they want you to fill out this questionnaire before they give you the IV. She said that room was for us while we wait,” he said, gesturing to the first door in the hall with a clipboard.

“Good,” Sherlock mumbled, taking the clipboard from him. He roamed over to the room as he read, paying no mind to the door as he walked into it to push it open. He sat in one of the chairs and crossed his calf over his knee. John sat beside him.

It was mostly the usual nonsense, his name and date of birth. He had to hand it over to John when he got to a part asking about previous procedures, and the man was eager about it.

John pursed his lips at the bottom of the form, which included a bunch of blank spaces for blood information. “They’re going to have to prick your finger.”

“Yes, I noticed that too. You were saying about privacy and a lack of double-standards.”

He hummed softly, trying to pick up where he left off. “You didn’t want any of ‘our’ photos to be shown to anyone else, so we took some that were specifically for other people. The reasoning behind it was really sweet. You said it’d be ruined if something meant for me was shared with other people. Same with everything else. ‘This is only for us, unless we agree otherwise.’ It’s... I don’t know, intimate?” He bit his lip. “I like it. Things get complicated when you share everything with the world.”

As he listened to him, a shy smile grew. He thanked the other version of himself for having the same ideals. He couldn’t put the appreciation for John into words... the best he had was “I like you.” Sherlock picked at his gown as he thought for some better ones. “I held you up on a pedestal because you were innocent and didn’t deserve to be hurt. Things like this bring you back down. Closer, more attainable. It’s nice.”

John gazed at him with this little sigh. He was still the same person. There was a difference between knowing it and being made to remember it. Sherlock was still soft, kind, all the things he was when they were together – before he forgot. It took a while to get there. Not that it was some big struggle, just that there was a clear difference in demeanour over time.

Sherlock didn’t make himself an object of sexual appeal anymore. There was potential, and it would always, _always_ be in a loving and beautiful way, it just wasn’t there right now. Instead he was hesitant, shy... but still caring. He was nothing but grateful for that man.

He took a big shivery breath and blinked some. God, he hoped he was okay. “I love you, Sherlock,” John sighed, biting his lip. “I say that a lot... you just remind me. Hope you don’t mind.”

He shook his head and smirked at how that sounded. How could he mind? “Of course not. Can you... You remembered to pack some things you wanted to show me?”

“You want me to go get them?”

“Please. It’ll be a long wait.”

He gave him a nod and set the clipboard down on the end table, standing up. John looked back at him and smiled before he moved over in front of him. “Come here.”

He frowned and scooted forward, hesitant as he stood. The doctor’s arms wrapped around him tightly and he couldn’t help but smile when his face was pressed so close to his chest. Sherlock buried a hand in his hair and held him close. His eyes were fixed on the wall across him, and he felt the man sway just a little.

His breaths felt deep and slow. John still had an aroma of comfort... it was getting easier to touch him. Maybe a hug wasn’t a large step, but it felt like one. The more they talked, the closer he felt to him. Maybe one day he wouldn’t feel like a stranger. “You’re very peculiar,” he said quietly, looking down at his head as he began brushing fingers through his hair. “Perhaps that’s not the word. This relationship, as it stands now, is unconventional. I don’t want anything else.”

John laughed a little. “Not going to leave me for some muscle-y bear?”

“Bear?” He cocked his head. “That’s... what, a hairy man?”

“Yep. They call white-haired ones ‘polar bears’.”

He snorted, covering his mouth. God, that was too fucking good. “How do you know this?”

“You discovered it on a pornography site and couldn’t resist showing me.”

“So I share porn with you. Great.”

“Nah. Something for a case. I can’t remember exactly.”

“I have a feeling I lied to you, then.” Sherlock shook his head with this stupid smile. Joking was fine, apparently, when it came to talking about sex. Or maybe it was just the pornography element – non-existent, he didn’t partake in it. He sighed. “I don’t want to leave you, no.” His hand stopped and he continued letting his body move with him. “I couldn’t blame you if this became too much. Don’t protest – this isn’t encouragement. I like having you around. I like how you make me feel. I’m just not the same person you were with.” Sherlock pursed his lips. “Not in that way.”

John looked up at him, his eyes light and absorbent. “That’s fine. You’re thinking way too much, love. Let’s just focus on your head first, and then I’ll take you out on a date. Okay?”

A giant grin spread on his face and he nodded. “I look forward to it.”

The door opened and Sherlock’s lips became a firm of determination to stay. It took quite a bit of his resolve to stare into the nurse’s eyes without flying away from John like he was on fire.

“Ah...” the nurse said, his voice low and awkward.

John coughed in a little fit of laughter and parted with a pat to Sherlock’s chest. “Sorry, bit of a personal moment. You got this, Sher?”

“I think I can manage being stuck with a needle.”

“Good. I’ll be right back.” He stood on his toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before going for the door. The nurse backed into the counter so John could get past, and then Sherlock was alone with him.

The man licked his lower lip, at a loss for words for a moment. He found his place, though, and stood up straighter. “So, Mr. Holmes, how’s your memory today?” he asked as he grabbed the clipboard.

“I believe I’ve retained all the memories I made yesterday, but I couldn’t truly know.” He sat back down and crossed his leg over his knee. “Do you have an inkling of how long this will take? I’m not entirely keen on lying still for anything other than sleep.”

“I couldn’t give you an exact time, but...” He poked his tongue in his cheek as he continued reading through it. “Um. IV will take about an hour. There are some conditions that are easier to spot during a PET scan, so that could take anywhere from half an hour to two hours. Probably on the shorter side.” He spoke in an almost shaky manner, like he didn’t believe his own words.

Sherlock stared at him with a bit of a pout. His clothes were wrinkly and his bloodshot eyes were paired with dark circles underneath. That and his mismatched socks were all he needed to know that the man was sleep-deprived. “How many cups of coffee have you had this morning?”

“Sorry?”

“Coffee. How many cups? More than one.”

The nurse swallowed harshly and gazed back at him. Trying to think. “Ah... four.”

“Christ.” He shook his head and rubbed at his brow. This really was unacceptable. The man was in a ragged mental state, and he didn’t exactly trust him to stick a needle in his arm. “I want to talk to the person that’s keeping you here. Matron, head nurse, what have you. Anything short of assisting open heart surgery, I want them in here.”

He opened his mouth, his eyes widening. “Excuse me?”

“Now, if you please.”

The man left the room after setting the clipboard down. Sherlock was unsure whether it was to shove someone else in here to do his job or to actually follow his instructions.

A minute later another nurse entered the room, searching through drawers hurriedly. “Hey,” she mumbled as she produced a needle and alcohol wipe, along with some odd little tube – what the IV would be connected to. “Pale blokes are the easiest,” she said with a little smile when he held out his arm for her.

Biting his cheek, he averted his eyes after the wipe’s package was torn open. Needles weren’t as fun to watch as stitches were. A slight pinpoint of pain followed the coldness on his hand, and then it was gone. Sherlock hummed in surprise and looked back at his hand at the wrong time – she pricked his index finger with a test strip and he pursed his lips firmly.

“Not pleasant,” he muttered. “Can I have a cotton swab?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She went over to the counter and grabbed one, along with a little device she stuck the test strip into. While looking at it she handed the swab to him.

Sherlock pressed it against his finger and sucked in a breath. She was to the point, he’d give her that. “What does it say?”

“Sixty-three. When was your last meal?”

“Yesterday, before noon.”

“That explains it. Okay, I’ll double check with the doctor, but I think we’ll need to have you chew a glucose tablet or two. It’s surprising you’re not feeling wheezy as it is. Do you get nauseous easily?” She asked as she started filling out the bottom part of the questionnaire.

“Not at all.”

“You’ll be fine, then. Be right back.” She gave him a thumbs-up before rushing back out of the room.

He blew out a bored breath and looked back to his finger, checking the swab. His finger was throbbing a little but it was starting to fade. With his other hand he tapped against the end table. It sounded faintly like the tune he’d played the day before, but the notes were lost to the dullness of wood.

Sherlock perked a little when the door swung open again, but alas, it wasn’t John. Instead a disgruntled man glared down at him, sizing him up.

“You demanded to see me?” His furrowed brow was dark and bushy, and matched with his sheer size, it was enough to make the detective briefly regret the decision.

He sighed and stood, pulling his gown down some. “Your nurse needs to sleep,” he said as he stared back at him. He’d be damned if he was going to be intimidated while looking so ridiculous.

The man’s look became more stern. “What? No. It’s not your place to decide that.”

“Do you want to be sued for negligence? Malpractice, abuse? Take a look at him. He can barely form a coherent sentence, let alone be responsible for the well-being of a patient. I can’t fathom how you can even be trusted with a _butter knife_ if this is how you manage healthcare,” Sherlock spat.

A slight cough made both of the men look to the door. John stood in the doorway with a confused look and a plastic shop bag in hand. “What... What is this? Mr. Patterson?”

“This your patient?” the man asked, jabbing a thick finger in Sherlock’s direction.

“No, boyfriend. What the hell is this?” John repeated, his voice firmer. The fierce glare he held was downright terrifying.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I wanted to know what irresponsible twit was depriving their nurses of sleep, and this,” he gestured to the man, “is my answer. I wouldn’t be surprised if the nurse at the desk last night was another of his.”

“You watch your fucking mouth.” Patterson turned from John to stare at him lividly.

“Is that your idea of beside manner?” He giggled, not bothering to cover his mouth. “This is preposterous. You’re not a nurse – can’t be. A nurse would know better than to deprive his charges of sleep to such a ridiculous extent. A mistake could very well cost a life, and when that happens, they won’t be looking to the poor bastard _trying his best_ , they’ll be looking to you for an explanation. I’d gladly testify that your superiority and pride was in the way of making a logical decision for the well-being of your nurses and the patients they assist.”

Patterson’s face went red and he was just about to shout when John stepped in and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, look, I know it’s a pain in the arse to be called out, but you should stop a moment and actually listen. He’s right. If something happens, you’re going to be responsible. Instead of running your nurses for as long as possible, consider getting a few more. Better than killing someone, yeah?”

The man’s lips formed a hard line and he said nothing as he shook him off and stormed out of the room.

A sigh of relief blew through him. “Jesus. Can’t help but start a fight, can you?” John asked. The sight of Sherlock standing in front of that man, bulky and furious as he was... it was a bit scary. Being beaten to a pulp was the last thing he needed.

“How did he ever come to be in that position? Anger isn’t a trait I’d look for in a matron.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Wasn’t always that way. Stress can get to a bloke.” He set the bag on the end table and moved over to sink into the chair again, scratching at his brow. “I’m sure he’ll heed your words, but I’ll ask one of his nurses the next opportunity I get.” He’d have to. Patterson’s nurses were probably too intimidated to speak up for themselves and worked until they legally had to leave. “What started that?”

“You recall the nurse that walked in on us hugging?”

“Yeah.”

“Bloodshot eyes. He could hardly understand what I was saying, his voice was shaky and he paused to think far too much. He’d had four cups of coffee already this morning.” Sherlock sat back down and yawned. “I didn’t trust him to prick me with a needle, and I refused to push him off for someone else to be at his mercy. Regardless of what this Patterson decides to do in the long run, he’ll get some sleep today. Once the caffeine wears off.”

John held back a chuckle and looked down at his hands. While he was sure the logical pretence wasn’t a lie, he knew the man cared. He perked up again when another nurse entered the room, a woman.

She smiled at the men and held up a little tube of tablets, shaking them. In her other hand was a plastic bag of fluid. “Doctor wants you to have a couple before your scan, but otherwise we’re good to go. I’ll set up the IV,” she said as she walked up and thrust her hand out.

Sherlock took the tube with a quirked brow, but made no comment on her eagerness. “Thank you.” He opened it and shook it until two fell into his hand.

While he chewed on them, the nurse rolled a metal stand from the corner, over to his right side. She hooked the bag up and set up the line, poking the needle adapter into the piece that was already attached to his hand. “So this should take about an hour, and then we’ll take you for your scan, okay? I’ll come prick you again to check your blood sugar before then.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“No problem, luv.” She left swiftly.

John hummed and licked his lower lip. “I could be wrong, but I _think_ she liked you.”

“I’m sorry?” the man replied, covering his mouth as he finished chewing another tablet. “It’s a common affectionate nickname for acquaintances.”

“Oh, sure. But she also looked at you like she’d sit in your lap if I weren’t sitting right here.” He grinned and crossed his legs. It was so cute the way Sherlock flustered up like this – he remembered when he made him react that way. He could do that again. He already did, sometimes. Now he’d just enjoy teasing him.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and stared hard at the floor. He hadn’t noticed anything, but John didn’t appear to be making it up just to be angry. Far from it, the man was _pleased_. How could he have missed this? He knew what it looked like when other people were together or pining over someone. “Was it that obvious?”

“Nothing too crazy. Just the way she exaggerated the sway of her hips and bent over to give you a chance to look at her cleavage.”

Apparently John was just more observant. “Odd.”


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock held a prominent frown as he stared at the door in thought. He knew the nurse would not return but regardless he wondered about his own lack of attention that became glaringly obvious at John’s words. He chewed on another tablet and looked to the man when John spoke his name.

“You keep phasing out,” he sighed. “It makes me nervous. Do you want to look in the bag?”

He narrowed his eyes and his gaze fell to the plastic bag on the end table, its contents poking out in the wish to tease him. In it, there were a few envelopes and letters, some pictures, and a couple other items he couldn’t make out. “Very little to pay attention to at the moment,” he excused himself. “Yes.”

John smiled and pulled the bag into his lap, rifling through it. His fingers closed around an envelope and he opened it with hesitation. Inside there were a few notes, a small collection of photos. He’d never thought these would be useful. It was devastating that they _were._

Shaking off the though, he pulled out a folded piece of paper. Sherlock’s handwriting was this elegant script that John envied, scrawled over it in neat paragraphs. He looked to Sherlock with a doleful expression. “Do you want to read it?”

Sherlock considered it, but the softness in John’s eyes forbid it. He couldn’t take the opportunity away from him. “I’d like if you did.”

The resulting smile was grateful, but it was also a grimace. The doctor swallowed and sat back, skimming over the text before he started to read:

“In the days when I become uncertain, you effortlessly reassure me – yes, something like this is attainable.” He took a soft breath. “You have known me long enough to recognise the endless questioning of reality my mind puts forth. It’s an unquenchable nightmare and I loathe it. If I could effectively rid myself of it... well, I should imagine I would be much less of a bitter person.”

A smirk tugged at Sherlock’s lips, but he didn’t interrupt him to chuckle.

“But I digress. My point is...” John smiled at the paper for a moment. As much as his mind wanted to desperately reflect that this was gone, he fought to reassert that it was still here. It was a violent effort, and a temporary one, but all he needed for the moment. “My point is that I am grateful, incredibly so. You don’t make me something as simple and fleeting as ‘happy’. Such a simple emotion is devoted to times of celebration. It’s temporary, never lasts for more than a day. Instead, what you do... is make me feel content. I no longer scream at idleness because I find I can enjoy it. On occasion, I even long for it.

Perhaps this isn’t an accurate judgement, we’re seldom idle for hours at a time, save for sleep.” John licked his lip and laughed softly. “I hope the subtlety isn’t lost on you there.”

Sherlock huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. That sense of unabashed forwardness was beyond him, but he couldn’t help his appreciation for it. He hoped he could be like that again someday. It seemed to have benefits.

“...The moments in between, however, are pleasant. Lovely. That word has always seemed frilly and almost meaningless to me, and in truth it still is, but I can see past its faults to convey a greater message to you. Speaking of frilly: this letter. I believe I wanted to make three simple statements. So to avoid wasting any more of your time:

Good morning. I love you. Your breakfast is on the top shelf next to the milk.”

It was strange to hear those words knowing he’d wrote them, but satisfying to know John inspired such delicate prose. Sherlock smiled shyly at his lap and the hair on his arms stood, tingling in this shivery delight.

John didn’t say anything as he put the letter back in the envelope. He felt that any words now would shatter the weight of the moment between them. Instead he just leaned forward, reaching out to take his hand. When Sherlock’s fingers squeezed at his, he felt he understood what Mycroft meant about silence. It wasn’t to be feared as a harbinger of tragedy.

He remembered the letter had been unexpected. It wasn’t written after some weighty event, or if it was, it was only in Sherlock’s head. It was the first time Sherlock wrote something so stupidly vulnerable and sweet. When John mentioned it that night, Sherlock had tensed up. He’d been agonising over the reaction for hours. He ended up insisting that the detective wrote whenever he had the inclination, because he needed to have those words. It was the first insight he ever had to how much Sherlock really cared, outside of everything he said.

It was Sherlock that broke the silence, perhaps ten minutes later. “Do you mind if I ask you something? As a warning, it’s massively inappropriate and this isn’t an opportune time for it.” Even as he asked, he was frustrated at himself for the unnatural transition.

He chuckled at the description. “Oh, I dunno, with that sort of preface...” John smiled. “Of course, please.”

Sherlock crossed his legs and focused on the opposite wall as he searched for the proper words. “Yesterday I had to tell Mycroft’s doctor about any abnormal pain I was experiencing. No headaches or nausea, just a profound ache in my calves. And though it’s possible I’ve been running, it’s unlikely.” He pursed his lips for a short while before asking, “Is there any conceivable way that could be related to sex?” The workup to the question might not have been necessary, but it was the only way he got through it without stammering and turning pink.

The doctor coughed some. “Not only _could_ it be, but it definitely is,” he laughed as he fidgeted with his free hand.

“Do I want to know?”

“I can’t really answer that. I know you must be curious, though.”

“It’s been bothering me from the moment since I first noticed.”

John hummed in thought. He didn’t know how to tell him without giving out too much detail, which Sherlock would definitely freeze up over. “Okay, I think I got it, and I think you’ll appreciate it more if it’s made into a mental game.”

He raised a brow and a pondering smile of amusement spread. “Go on.”

“Four words: rope, wrists, ceiling fixture.”

Sherlock pouted and considered it. Obviously the rope would be around his wrists, and then – _oh._ He stared at John sternly with the words on his tongue, but no way to ask it aloud. If he removed some of the elements and focused purely on the act, he found it less daunting. He began rattling off, “So it was a sex act in which one of the participants had their hands tied and fixed towards the ceiling to effectively immobilise them while the other was free to do whatever they had an inclination to do. And meanwhile the first participant might be encouraged to lean towards whatever pleasant activity they were involved in, and could roll onto the balls of their feet – and therefore flex their calves – in order to do so. Correct?”

John’s grin confirmed it. His eyes were glossy in admiration as he awed at him. “Amazing. How did you manage to make it through that?”

“Apparently it’s quite easy once I remove any personal attachment to the subject. If I were to put myself back into the situation... I would have a difficult time speaking at all.” He closed his eyes and sighed, stroking his thumb across John’s palm. It was this little wonder, the warmth that resonated. He’d been able to touch and hug John when he pretended nothing was wrong, but it was all wrong. He was lying in those actions.

His hand was squeezed and he smiled a little. He knew he brought them out of the heavy moments, but he still thought about the letter. At some point, he’d truly loved John. Not like he did now. He wanted John to feel loved, more than he could possibly care for him at the moment. In that, he felt guilty... but he couldn’t do anything to overcome it yet.

When his eyes watered, he just accepted it. No tears formed. It just felt like hurting was the only thing that proved he was a real person.

Sherlock shook his head. “I wish...” He left it at that. There was nowhere to go with it, too many options. He wished he was healthy so he wouldn’t hurt John any more than he already had. He wished he wasn’t crammed into this hospital, forced to wait as everything dragged him around.

He wished he was at their home outside the city. He wished he was lying in bed, John still clueless, still wrapped around him and still so comforting.

And just one more little thing: he wished he’d never gone away. But wishing was a useless activity for the hopeless and the lazy. This is what he told himself.

John watched him with a sorrowful, listless expression. “You don’t have to say anything. If you don’t mind... I’d prefer if you didn’t. If you let me distract you just a bit longer.”

Sherlock smiled softly and nodded. “Yes, of course. We needn’t reiterate last night.” He forced this professional demeanour, sitting up straighter and bringing both feet flat on the cool tile floor. It didn’t take too long for it to affect his mood, only because he invited it to.

“You’re weird,” the doctor mumbled, but grinned nonetheless. He gave his hand a firm squeeze before letting go, returning to the bag in his lap. “I’ll make sure not to show you anything sad.”

His quirked his brow. “Is that even possible, given the nature of the topic?”

“It might be difficult.” John bit his cheek and looked back up after a moment of looking through the envelopes and pictures. “Ah. Yeah, good point. So what do we do, genius?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t know anything about you other than the obvious. It’d be easy to waste time throwing out generic, meaningless questions and getting answers of the same ilk.”

“You really know how to make things sound appealing.”

“My special talent.” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair with a frown. John was open for questions and yet he didn’t have any idea what to ask. There was pressure for it to be important, but important was only going to make them both sad again. “I know you used to be a doctor. You’re one now. Do you... enjoy it?”

There was a smirk at Sherlock’s awkward cringe, but he didn’t tease him about it. “Sometimes. It’s not at all what it used to be like. To be honest, I’m bored most days.” John huffed and ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t know why he still worked. They weren’t hurting for money, and he liked helping people, but he felt like most days he was just saving them from their own stupidity. He didn’t use to think that... a side effect of Sherlock Holmes, no doubt. “I don’t mean to sound bitter. I like doing what I do, I like helping people. I just don’t feel like I’m employing more than common sense at the moment.”

He watched the doctor with interest, tilting his head as he listened. There was something gratifying about it. “If you don’t enjoy working, then you should quit. Find something better.”

A soft sigh left John. “I suppose. I could try for a higher position, or look for a closer hospital.”

“It’d be more convenient.” He didn’t add the obvious part: John would be closer if there was an emergency. The thought put a bad taste in his mouth. “Do you have any regrets? Other than the obvious.”

John frowned at him. “The _obvious?_ ”

“Me.”

“I don’t regret you for a second, you cock,” he scoffed. “Wish you’d quit thinking that way.” He knew why he did it, though. Sherlock felt guilty and needed to get it out before it turned to poison. “I regret a lot of things. Made a lot of mistakes, and some of them ended up putting us a little further in the future than we might’ve been. If I stopped searching so desperately for someone that’d put up with me, I might have realised a lot sooner.”

Sherlock observed him intently, scrutinising his features. Though he had a general idea, he prompted him anyway: “Realised what?”

John wiggled his toes in his shoes. Talking about this stuff was difficult.

It was why he stopped seeing his therapist. Initially, and then after Sherlock left... it never helped him. The woman tried, bless her heart, but it always ended up ruining his day. Being forced to say things he’d rather keep in his head.

“I didn’t know it then, but I don’t make such great connections outside of tense situations. I had a list of friends I was supposed to catch up with and I never got around to it. I had a girlfriend, and then I had girlfriend after girlfriend after girlfriend...” He cleared his throat. “Not something I like you knowing now, if I’m honest.”

“Understandable.” While it wasn’t pleasant, it was easy to reason that they were meaningless and nothing to concern himself with. He was still John’s choice even when he wasn’t himself. A bashful smile spread when he realised that.

“I guess it’s just difficult to feel like someone’s close until you’ve wet your trousers over a bomb together. Now, I mean. I wasn’t always like that.”

He chuckled, “So I imagine.” He’d known it to some extent, but John confirmed it: danger didn’t beget fear. If anything, it only brought excitement.

When Sherlock had asked about regrets, girlfriends were the furthest thing from John’s mind. He’d lied and told him something that made him look a little unsavoury, but it was nothing compared to their time apart. He regretted missing him as much as he did because it turned out to be pointless. He regretted shouting at him when he came back, and how long it took for him to ask to be forgiven.

He just hated the whole thing. Enough to try to keep it away from Sherlock as long as he could.

John looked at the clock and then glanced at the IV bag. It was close to being completely drained. Soon enough they’d know what was going on in Sherlock’s head. “So what about you?”

“Hm?”

“Any regrets? I never asked. It’d be interesting to know about your thoughts before me.”

Sherlock blinked. He thought John knew everything there was to know, but evidently not. There did seem to be some holes. Maybe he’d managed to hide a few things after all, only for the simple discomfort of bringing them up. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.

The doctor frowned at him, sitting up. “You don’t remember, or...?”

“I wouldn’t know anything relevant.” He bit his lip and played with the fabric of the gown, rubbing it between his fingers. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you. It is rather negative.”

Sherlock sighed. “If pressed, I would have to say I regret believing lies as a child. Saint Nicholas, Krampus, the Easter bunny... those ridiculous things. Mycroft would tell me I was an idiot and I didn’t understand why until it was too late.” He took in a deep breath and stared at his fidgeting hand, weighing on whether or not he should continue. “Did I ever speak of a boy named Christopher?”

John’s face fell. “Yes,” he whispered. He’d only heard the name one other time, overhearing it by accident when Sherlock and Mycroft were having some hushed argument in the kitchen. It was before Mycroft was married, before he ever swayed on his opinion of sentiment. He scolded his younger brother for believing anything well would come of his relationship with John, and at the mention of this Christopher, there was a deafening smack of skin on skin.

Shortly after Mycroft had taken his leave with his hand held to his cheek, Sherlock was snarling as he grasped for ice in the freezer.

“I regret believing that he would be anything more than ash.”

The admission was soft, breathless. John didn’t have time to find a good response before the nurse nudged the door open, her bright smile bringing a tasteless cheer to the room. “Looks like you’re all set,” she said, oblivious to their mood. She walked over to Sherlock and gave him an even wider grin as she examined the bag.

“Will we be starting soon?” Sherlock asked.

“Yep. Just got to prick your finger again to check on your blood sugar, and then we’ll move on to the scan. Hopefully it’ll be over with quickly – wouldn’t want anything to be wrong with your little head, now.” She moved over to the drawer and retrieved the tester and a clean strip.

Meanwhile Sherlock and John stared at each other, a silent agreement between them. He could see what John was talking about before: the way she talked so sweetly and moved with that forced grace. She gave away all sorts of signs that she wanted to be seen and acknowledged. If body language didn’t give it away, the new application of lipstick did.

Sherlock gritted his teeth when his finger was pricked and he gave the nurse a nod of appreciation when he was given another cotton ball. He pressed it against the tender skin and breathed deeply, attempting to move on from the heaviness in his chest. Biting his lip, he hummed.

“What?” John asked.

“Wondering what to do when we go back home. That and what happens when the results come in. Even if there was something wrong, I would simply be released into your custody. Perks of knowing a medical professional.” He winked and gave him a reassuring smile.

It was a small gesture in reassurance: _We’re okay._

The man snorted softly, but he didn’t fight the grin that came with it. Sherlock’s ability to move on from these things so quickly... he knew it was all for him. He couldn’t be more grateful. “I love you,” John sighed.

Sherlock chuckled at the warmth fluttering in his chest and shook his head. He was well aware of the nurse’s presence, how she shifted awkwardly at the realisation, but didn’t have any desire to care. Not now. “I’m ever so glad to hear it. What’s the verdict, miss...?”

“Leila.” The nurse stared down at the device before responding, “You’re good. First we’re going to have you go to the loo and then I’ll take you to the doctor, and he’ll tell you all about the scan. We’ll wait here so you don’t feel like we’re listening in on you. The lavatory’s beyond the door opposite this room.”

He gave a stiff nod and stood, his lips pursed for lack of anything to stay. He was confused that the IV wasn’t removed yet but didn’t question it as he held the thin stand and rolled it with him on the way out of the room.

John nibbled on his lower lip and crossed his calf over his knee, watching the doorway. He wished he wasn’t left alone with the nurse, only because he knew he dashed her hopes of a chance with Sherlock. He’d never done that before. Even before they started dating, Sherlock didn’t acknowledge most people, and they were often discouraged as a result. After, well... there wasn’t much of a difference.

He’d never have to question the man’s loyalty. It was an undeniable fact.

John sighed; he was grateful for that. Life was so much easier when love wasn’t complicated.

The silence wasn’t very disturbing until he realised the nurse was staring at him. He forced a smile. “Hey.”

“You’re his... boyfriend?” Leila asked, cocking her head in question.

“That’s right. Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. Looking down, she realised she still had the strip in her hand and walked over to throw it in the rubbish bin. When her eyes caught John’s again, she licked her lip in thought. “I’m really sorry about your situation. It can’t be easy.”

He swallowed and let his gaze fall to his lap. It was all well and good that he and Sherlock could call each other on bringing down the mood, but he couldn’t do that with her. “It isn’t,” he muttered. “But one step at a time, right? It’s all anyone can do, really.”

“True.”

In the time it took for Sherlock to come back, neither of them said anything. He stood in the doorway with narrowed eyes that flicked between them, but he couldn’t determine what had gone on in that time. John’s forced smile only made him sigh.

Leila gave a cough and took in a slight breath before gesturing to the doorway. Sherlock stepped aside and John got up, the bag in his hand. The men followed her, saying nothing.

When the temptation came to fade out, Sherlock fought it. Though wading at someone else’s will was boring and he had every reason to lash out at it, he knew that retreating into his head only ever dampened his mood. When he caught John’s eye again he smiled, but it was forced.

Really he was just tired of the damn hospital.

Sherlock sighed and rolled the IV stand to his other side when his arm got tired, holding it with his opposite hand. He shook his head when John’s hand twitched for it in offering.

Leila stopped for a door and held it open for them, biting her lip. “Doctor Simmons is in there, she’ll take care of you,” she said. There was something reserved in it.

Frowning at the phrasing, he gave a silent nod to her and shuffled through the door first; John was directly after him. Before he had much of a chance to look past the short hallway, the aforementioned doctor seemed to spring up from her seat and swiftly walked over to them.

She had a cheerful, if slightly withered, expression on her face as she greeted them. “It’s good to finally meet you two,” she beamed, holding out her hand.

“Sorry – finally?” John asked, furrowing his brow. He reached out and shook her hand so Sherlock didn’t have to manoeuvre the stand again.

Sherlock took a breath and was about to start on a short run of spouted words to say the rumour of his odd condition might have spread from doctor to doctor, either by interest or Doctor Richards seeking advice on the matter, but he was cut off by her answer.

“Well, yes. The famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.” There was a flush in her cheeks and awe filled her bright, amber eyes. “I read your blogs in my free time, and I must say they’re _very_ interesting.”

 _“Our_ blogs.” Sherlock glanced to John and received a nod in confirmation. “Tell me I do not force anecdotes on people.”

“No, that’s what I do. So you’ve complained, on numerous occasions.”

“Are they at least interesting?”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both.”

“Yours are more scientific, so they’re interesting to _you,_ if that helps. Mine... sometimes. Most of the time.”

He hummed in thought, but Doctor Simmons caught his eye again and he snapped back to attention. “Apologies. I’ve been... learning about myself. More fun than I thought initially.”

She chuckled and smiled in understanding. “It’s good to focus on the bright side of things. I’m sorry that you’re struggling with this. It must be difficult.”

Sherlock quirked his mouth in thought, but didn’t give the witty answer he hoped for. Something in confidence, sure that he’d be fine. He didn’t feel that enough to say it. “To a certain extent. I’ll manage as long as I maintain the ability to reason. Otherwise... well, I wouldn’t know to miss it, would I?” There was a bit of a grimace.

John swallowed hard. He’d tried not to think about that, but it was a possibility. “Can we get started with this?” he asked, a little too earnestly.

“Yes, of course. Apologies,” Doctor Simmons said, biting her cheek. “I take it you have some idea of how this works, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock peeked down the entry way and took a hesitant step. The room was probably quite large in reality, but it was pitiful with the scanner placed in the centre of the room. “As I understand it, you’re supposed to lie down and follow instructions while your body is scanned for a time, then you get up, follow more instructions, and if you’re lucky, you get to go home. Anything else to understand?”

He came off irritated, if slightly humorous about it. John could tell he was running out of steam – whether it was due to people or the stress, he didn’t know, but it was clear that it would be best to get him home as soon as he could. “I think he has the gist of it,” he mumbled, forcing a smile as he patted Sherlock’s shoulder. “Do you think there’s anything we should know, Doctor?”

The woman frowned and shook her head. “No, I believe that’s a basic summary of it. Let’s get you settled in, then.” Doctor Simmons smiled at the men and gestured for Sherlock to follow as she approached the PET-CT scanner.

 

* * *

 

 

The procedure did not take as long as it’d been hinted at, though it managed to still feel endless in the moment. Sherlock was more patient than he thought he could be and never had an overwhelming urge to snap at Doctor Simmons – nor John, but the man was preoccupied. With what, he didn’t know until he was allowed to get up from the large cushion he’d sunk down in for the scan. Just as Sherlock got up and both of the doctors left the control room, John stuffed his mobile in his back pocket.

It was not the _usage_ of the phone that stuck him as odd. It was the deliberate secrecy in it.

He did not ask John about it at the time.

After they made an appointment for the following Monday, Sherlock was given the go-ahead to return home. There was no point in staying until the results came. The night he spent in the hospital raised no red flags and while they technically _could_ ask him to stay longer, it was deemed a cruel act. The man was clearly stressed out of his mind and asking him to stay in a place that reminded him of the reason... well, it wasn’t right.

There was very little discussion as they packed up their things. Sherlock was ultimately relieved to be leaving, but apprehension met him at the notion of returning to the foreign place where he was expected to have so many memories. Perhaps not by John, as he was ever patient, but by the detective himself.

Though he wasn’t so much of a detective anymore, was he? He didn't remember any of that. Could he even do his job – or hobby, as it were?

The thought set a sour mood for the taxi ride home.


	14. Chapter 14

It was halfway through the ride home that it occurred to Sherlock to ask about his brother. “Why are we in a cab?” he asked, his voice croaky from disuse. His gaze didn’t part from the window and the clear sky beyond it. If he were in a simpler mood, he would’ve preferred that it was raining.

“Mycroft wasn’t in a position to get off of work, and since you’re not bleeding or anything... he wasn’t rushed.” There was a sigh after the uttered statement. John had reservations about the way Mycroft treated Sherlock. While he’d seemed more caring in the past day, it wasn’t enough to stop his true colours from shining through. “Greg’s on his way, though.”

Sherlock nodded to acknowledge him. He’d been under the impression that Mycroft wanted to be as involved as possible, but perhaps not. Or there was particularly dangerous work being done. He elected not to be insulted – he didn’t have all of the information yet, and John was right. If he was dying, wasn’t going to die quickly.

Normally life was too fast. Hours passed, then months... but right now, he felt every minute as its own individual lifetime. When the minute was boring, he was disappointed in its waste. “Greg cares about you. Us,” he added afterwards.

“He does. You’ve been friends with him longer than you have with me.”

He shrugged at that. The comparison of time as a whole hardly meant anything. Obviously John meant more. He would defend it, say that John was held in a different regard... but in the end he was left with the same conclusion. John meant more than Greg and that was fine.

He rubbed at his arm, his skin prickled with goose bumps, and blinked slowly. He tried not to think more about how he was losing whatever he was before, how he would never be the exact same person again. Logic told him that regardless of losing his memories or not, who he was would still change over time. He wouldn’t have been that person again anyway.

Even if it was rational thought, it felt like a cop-out. It was _different._ No smooth transition, no growing, just a smack into a day where time began a confused jumble. Individuality was almost meaningless.

“Today’s Saturday, yes?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah. Do you not-“

“Not everything is evidence I’m losing my mind, John, I just wanted confirmation.” He couldn’t help the irritated tone even if he felt guilty for it. He knew John was worried about his mental health, but if he had to be interrogated every time he wasn’t one hundred percent sure about something, he’d eventually snap.

John didn’t reply.

A few minutes passed. The city started turning into a sparse town. “When we get home I want to be alone for a while.” Sherlock bit his cheek and looked down at the grass that blurred by. “Not personal. I need to think.”

The doctor swallowed sharply, but he didn’t ask the question on his mind – whether Sherlock was bored with him, or worse, annoyed. Taking Sherlock at his word was hard when he cared so much about what he thought. “Do you want me to not be in the house?” he asked, furrowing his brow. It was difficult to keep his voice steady.

“No, of course not, do what you like. I could hardly kick you out. I mean – I could...” Sherlock trailed off. “I would prefer _not_ to, we shall say.”

“Okay,” the man laughed a little, smiling. “I’ll just leave you to your devices.”

“It’s appreciated.” He rubbed his thumb along the seam of his seat in this idle, mindless motion. More than anything, he wanted to be alone. Whether to mourn or to plan, he couldn’t know, but spending time with John only made it worse for the moment.

John needed time, too. Though he tried to be there for him and show that he could be trusted, he knew that he wouldn’t be enough. It was never good to come to the person who caused you such pain and cry to them – either they were apathetic to it or they’d become overwrought with guilt. Sherlock didn’t bother to wish it different; he understood. He just wanted someone to be there for the man so he didn’t have to go through it alone.

A huffed breath left him and he was thankful when the worn road turned to concrete, when the car slowed and the cabbie mumbled something he didn’t pay attention to. Sherlock left the cab and went to the back to retrieve the suitcase.

Beside the cab was a silver car, the same one that’d picked them up the day previously. The engine wasn’t running and he couldn’t see anyone in it. Greg must’ve already arrived at the house and was likely inside, if he had a key. Sherlock walked along their stone pathway and heard John in tow not far behind him. He turned the knob and the door opened.

Coming home was a sigh of relief, if somewhat morose. The suitcase struggled to get over the slight step in, and he left it tucked aside in the entryway as he walked further in.

The kitchen light bled into the living room, leaving Greg’s reflection on the windows. Sherlock leaned against the wall and looked at the lake with longing, hiding himself from sight at the moment. He wasn’t ready to be greeted and questioned. When John walked to pass him by, he tapped him on the arm to get his attention. “I’m going to go to the room with the books... the study, I suppose. Leave you to socialise, whatever you need.”

John didn’t say anything, but he knew that wasn’t the reason. Sherlock just didn’t want to look selfish in sneaking off. He smiled and nodded, squeezing his hand before he left for the kitchen.

Sherlock was quick to leave the room and headed off to, for the lack of a better word, “his” room. The door was closed gently behind him but the sound made pointed statement on its own. From now to the point he opened the door again, he wasn’t to be bothered.

With a soft sigh, he walked over to the bookcase and plucked the violin by its neck, slumping into the soft chair on the other side of the room. He sunk into it deeply and perched his feet on the edge of it as he gave a careful pluck to one of the strings. It was quiet, wary of the people who might observe the sound.

He went along from one string to the next and tuned it, biting his lip. Tuning by ear wasn’t as accurate as it was with other methods, but he had always done it this way. There was no tuner to be seen on the bookshelf or the desk, and given that the procedure was best to repeat every instance before playing, it would’ve been placed somewhere convenient.

None of these thoughts mattered. There was no point to analyse the things he knew, beyond the split-second instances of wonders and answers.

From the other room came mumbles, pleasantries between Greg and John. He hoped that Greg could do what he couldn’t. No matter how much he tried to do what was best, tried not to worsen the mood, to provide the distraction John asked for, he only seemed to make things worse. Or if not worse, he didn’t help.

He couldn’t help. He was the cause of it all.

Sherlock plucked a sour note and his nostrils flared before he set the violin on the floor beside him. He wouldn’t be playing until the next time he was alone in the house. Best not give John more evidence of how lost he was... or embarrass himself.

 

* * *

 

 

John sighed and leaned against the counter, staring at the floor. Greg was making a sandwich for himself. He’d offered to make John one, but the man declined.

“So how are things?” Greg asked. His expression was unsure, as if he was weighing the wisdom in the question. He folded a paper towel around the bottom of his sandwich and took a bite as he turned to look at John.

“They’re... okay. Okay as they can be.” He tapped his fingers against the counter’s edge. “Sherlock’s trying, bless his heart. I keep thinking the next thing’s going to break him.”

He swallowed before replying. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Sherlock’s pretty unbreakable.”

“Normally, yeah.” John took a slow breath and let it out. “It’s frustrating. I don’t want to put pressure on him. You saw how he was.”

“Worried out of his mind.” Greg took another bite and set his sandwich back down on the counter. He shook his leg idly and chewed, thinking. These situations were always tough. You never knew for sure what the right words were until you said them. “I know it doesn’t help, but... things could be worse.”

He snorted and nodded in agreement. “Yes. He could hate me. Or he could be dead.” He might still wind up that way. John swallowed harshly and tried to think about something else. “The subject keeps popping up... the time he spent away. No doubt one of these days he’ll ask outright and-” He closed his eyes with a quiet sigh. “And God help me, I don’t want to say it. I don’t want him to look at me like that again for the rest of my life. It was hard enough kicking myself every time I thought about it. I still do, every time we talk about it.” He shook his head.

Greg watched him, his heart softening in pity. The situation on its own was terrible but knowing that John had almost no one to be honest with was heartbreaking. “John, one of these days you’re going to have to forgive yourself. He already did. And it was... Christ, four years ago. Verging on five.”

“I know. I know, and I wasn’t even still on this until now.” John rubbed his thumb against the edge of the counter. He didn’t know how he was supposed to get through this without lying eventually. He was too much of a coward to tell Sherlock the truth. “Normally I don’t think about it. And even if I do, he’s there, and he doesn’t have to ask to know. All it takes is one little peck on the forehead and I’m golden again. But he’ll find out eventually – of course he will. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes, master of weaselling out secrets. And this time I’m not sure he’ll forgive me. What if he dies, condemning me for that stupid lapse of-”

John shuddered quietly and covered his mouth, his eyes stinging as they watered. He shut them tighter and whimpered when Greg touched his arm.

Greg pulled him into a firm hug, saying nothing. There was nothing he could say to him to make any of it better. Even if he could, it would all be temporary. He fought to keep a stern look on his face when one of John’s hands grasped at his shirt. Seeing the man hurt only made him want to cry along with him.

Shame ran through the doctor as he continued clasping his hand around his mouth, struggling to keep quiet. Sherlock couldn’t hear him. Short, shallow gasps wracked through him and he succumbed to the subtle force of gravity, allowing Greg to keep holding him up as he leaned against him.

All manner of things weighed on his mind. The threat of death, the pain he’d go through if Sherlock was allowed to know what he did to the man when he got back. Even if it felt justified in the moment – felt _good,_ in that moment... he didn’t deserve it. And yet he’d said nothing.

He didn’t let on that stitches tore and flesh split in his back, that for the rest of the night he was bleeding through his shirt. He didn’t even move to stop him. Somehow the idiot must have thought that it was right.

As the weight settled on him, John’s sobs lessened, but the pain cut deeper and deeper into his chest. He took a slow, steady breath and whispered, “He doesn’t love me enough to forgive me again.”

Greg opened his mouth to protest and John gently pulled away from him, wiping at his cheeks. “It’s fine. I’ve got to... I’ve got to take a shower. Tell Mycroft to get off his arse and help him.”


	15. Chapter 15

John was silent. The water cascaded from above and sounded like rain as droplets joined the growing level of water. He’d plugged the tub but not bothered to make the water run from the tap.

The anger he’d felt at the time brought shame to his stomach. All he was able to see at the time was the blood trailing from Sherlock’s nose. Not the new stains on the back of that fancy shirt. Even though he’d been in the wrong, Sherlock didn’t enlighten him of the additional pain he’d caused. Never snapped out those biting facts in the handful of fights they had since he was back. John only got to know when he caught a glimpse of his back one evening several months later.

The detective had been gripping the ends of a towel wrapped around his waist, quickly rushing to his room as water dripped onto the carpet. John watched from the kitchen, giggling without a thought towards sparing dignity. It was only when the man hurried back to the loo that John saw peculiar pink markings all across his back.

Sherlock revealed the story behind them a few days after, when John got up the nerve to ask. He hadn’t hesitated out of the thought that Sherlock would lie, but that he might be insulted or bite back in angry defence instead. Things still felt fragile at the time.

When the water started to drain into the overflow, gurgling as it did, John reached over and turned off the water. He shivered quietly and ran his soap-lathered hands over himself.

All of this felt wrong. He didn’t know if Sherlock should even be here. If his parents weren’t on holiday, he imagined the man would stay with them. Familiar faces might do him some good. But if he brought it up, Sherlock might fight it. Latch on to the one comfortable thing.

John smiled grimly. He wouldn’t mind being latched onto so much, but he knew that wasn’t Sherlock, wasn’t healthy for him. Trying to figure this out alone would do no good anyway. Sherlock would only rebel if he tried to make decisions for him, as he should. Sherlock’s firm grip of his own independence proved useful on many occasions, and never left John wondering if he crossed a line. That wasn’t to say the man was cruel about it, however.

A soft sigh echoed through the room. A door opened somewhere, and he knew it was Mycroft as soon as that tight, proper voice sounded out. Greg’s followed. He should get up and talk to them. Hopefully Mycroft had a good excuse. He didn’t enjoy being cross with him; Mycroft knew exactly what buttons to push and made it impossible for one to defend themselves without also looking pathetic and childish.

John and Sherlock shared hatred of that particular trait. He knew that couldn’t be gone.

As the voices chattered in their soft tones, he pulled the plug in the bath and lifted himself out, making sure all the suds were gone. Soon Sherlock’s voice was added in, and it sounded almost conversational. John dried off, dressed in some fresh clothes and left the room to its gurgling bathtub drain.

The three men were situated in the kitchen, discussing some frustrating classified official Mycroft brought up. The conversation quieted as John leaned against a counter. Sherlock seemed to tense, but it was gone as quickly as it’d come.

“The appointment was well, I trust?” Mycroft asked, folding his hands together in front of him.

John’s lips tightened in uncertainty.

“As well as it could have been. No answers as of yet,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “We’ll have more once the results come in.” He gripped the edge of the counter and rubbed his fingers together absent-mindedly.

“I expected as much.” Mycroft paused. “I appreciate you going, in spite of your reservations.”

“It didn’t make any sense not to go. Even I’m not that mule-headed.”

“Mm.”

John smiled to himself. He never got tired of listening to them talk: their small bickers to their full-blown shouting matches. Though the latter was prone to splitting one’s ears. “Work keep you?” he asked, looking to Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded. “An emergency, otherwise I would have been here sooner. It’s difficult to enjoy work when there are more important things going on.”

A snort came from Sherlock. “You’re the only person I’ve ever known that thoroughly enjoys working in government.” He held in his “thank you” for the sentiment behind his brother’s words. He was sure Mycroft knew his appreciation.

“And you’re the only person I know that despises the thought so much.”

“I’m certain that’s not true.”

“Yet you have no evidence to prove it.”

“Correct.”

“Then we’re at an impasse, I’m afraid,” Mycroft sighed, though his amusement was clear. He looked about the kitchen and quirked his lip. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind, John, if you helped me make dinner.”

Greg made a sudden noise of protest, a great frown on his face. “You don’t have to-“

“Yes, but I’m not opposed to the notion either.” The man made a pointed look to John.

John swallowed and curled his toes against the tile. “Relax, Greg. I don’t mind. You can put away the apron for once,” he offered.

The man seemed slightly insulted for a good moment, but soon realised it really was a favour. Mycroft offering to do something “homely” was rare, considering how busy he’d in recent months. During week days he’d grown a habit of coming home late, exhaustion clear in his features. He looked to Sherlock, who seemed content to watch the men argue about something so small. “I suppose we could walk along the lake. You haven’t seen much of it, have you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Indeed not – and I must admit I’m eager to.” Getting out of the house sounded delightful; no doubt Mycroft and John would fret together. He’d feel guiltier about leaving them but he knew it would be worse if he stayed. He gave a wave to Greg to follow as he left the kitchen and headed for the front door. He avoided the study and the cursed violin that took residence there.

Greg, surprised by the quickness in which the man left, stood awkwardly for a moment. He wasn’t sure what they’d talk about. Either way, it was clear that he wouldn’t be allowed to stay. He gave Mycroft a squeeze on the shoulder, and John a firm smile, before he began to follow.


	16. Chapter 16

A soft wind blew outside. Sherlock stepped carefully along the flat stone path, gazing at the front yard now that he had the time. He knew that Greg was a few steps behind him, his concern quelled for the time being. With some effort Sherlock could convince himself that his brother was acting out of the kindness of his heart, but he knew otherwise.

They walked along the right side of the house and he remained silent to his thoughts. From the back of the house, the land sloped gradually to the waterfront. Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and watched the light flickering across the surface of the water. He wondered how many times he’d come here to watch. He could see himself sitting a little ways from the water, watching the water move and glisten for hours.

There were a few words in his head. He might’ve said them, but felt that if he did, he’d not only ruin the sight of the lake but the entire evening with it too. Normally the words he said weren’t much of a concern, but now he supposed it mattered. It must have mattered at other points too.

The moment drew on and to his appreciation, Greg didn’t interrupt. Words felt silly and clumsy then. All the nagging thoughts were hard to toss away, but in the end… he knew he thought too much. So Sherlock took a soft breath and nibbled on his lip for a minute.

“I trust you, yes?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper. “To tell the truth and to judge people correctly.”

Greg looked startled at his words. “I suppose,” came his gruff, uncertain reply.

He nodded slowly, taking his words into consideration. “I want to believe that John is everything I must have believed at some point. Kind, caring, with my best interests in mind where it matters. I do, to some extent.” He looked to his feet and fidgeted his fingers in his pockets. Considering the thought was enough for shame to weigh in his heart.

Greg’s mouth opened, but he didn’t know what to say. Sherlock often didn’t need any sort of words. He stepped closer and licked his lower lip. “What brings this on?” They were both blush-y teenagers the day before, from where he was standing.

Sherlock grimaced. “I-“ He cut himself off with a frustrated sigh. “I told him something personal that I don’t like to think about. From the look on his face, I’d never told him that before. And now it hangs in the back of my head, suppressed for little stretches of time, but never truly gone.” If he were truthful now, he hated confiding this.

“Well…” He sighed. “I know what I have to say won’t make it much better. I’m as much a stranger to you as he is.”

“But there’s less to make up for.” He bit his lip. It didn’t sound right. “I could be friends with you again with a lot less effort than I could be what I was with John.” Sherlock cracked his knuckles and pursed his lips, knowing very well that Greg was right. “I know. It won’t convince me totally, but I’d appreciate it regardless.”

“I suppose that’s a start.” Greg lifted his hand to rub his forehead, searching. “This is utter shite. I’m sorry.” A soft sigh left him and he said, “John’s a good man. Fair. Fairer than you sometimes, and I know that annoys the piss out of you when you’re right. But I think nothing will convince you more than… well, he’s risked his life for you. More than once. And of course you’ve done the same for him. As long as you’ve known him, I think if he were out to get you in any way, we’d all know by now. Even Mycroft has given his little silent blessing, and it took ages to get him to shut the holy hell up about the ‘dangers of sentiment’.”

Sherlock chuckled, a slight grin spreading on his face. “I suppose I do have to trust that. I’ve no idea how he was brought to have that new outlook.”

“I think it was John’s effort in the end. I know you and Mycroft fought for ages and ages on the topic, and he never believed you.”

“Always thought he was the be-all-end-all, the ultimate big brother.”

A little snort of breath came from the man. “Exactly.”

“How did you ever put up with him? In the beginning. He’s obviously different now.”

Greg shrugged a little. “Wasn’t easy. Not very emotional. But then again, when you put your lot in with blokes and expect touchy-feely from the start, you’re barking up the wrong tree. That doesn’t mean they can’t care, it’s just…”

“Different. Subtle,” Sherlock finished.

“Exactly.” He brushed his fingers along his jaw, the new stubble gently scratching against them. “For the most part, anyway. So I expected that much, from Mycroft especially. But I don’t know. Where there weren’t a bunch of words professing all that, there were gestures. He replaced my watch when the glass cracked. Sent food to my office when I was too busy to go get lunch. Things like that.”

It felt odd to hear such things about Mycroft, but he smiled proudly nonetheless. “So I don’t have a reason to pity you.”

“You pitied me?”

“Oh, certainly. We both know my brother’s a right arse,” he chuckled. “I thought it must’ve been a nightmare.”

“Mm. Well it helps that the sex is bloody fantastic.”

He groaned and shot a rude gesture at him, shutting his eyes tight. “You had to ruin it.”

“I did.”

“You sound proud.”

“Well, maybe that’s because I am. Took a while to find your weak spot.”

Sherlock huffed and shoved his hand back into his pocket. “And how’d you find it, exactly?”

“You’re sure you want to know?” he asked, grinning.

“Why not? I’ve already been disgusted once.”

Greg chuckled to himself and bit his lip. “Okay, so we were together for about six months. You and Mycroft had this fight about him hovering over you all the time, mother-henning you to death. Apparently. So I was at his place and we were on the sofa snogging.”

He cringed and nodded for him to go on.

“Things got heated and progressed, and at about the worst moment, you picked the lock on his door and barged in, ready to shout your head off about some other ridiculous thing he’d done to piss you off. So of course I was laughing my arse off out of embarrassment, Mycroft wasn’t amused, and you were bursting right back out of there. I didn’t see you for a month.”

Sherlock blew out a breath with a shake of his head, the very idea making him tense up. “That’s horrendous.”

“A little.”

“Not a little. Utterly. _Utterly_ revolting.”

“Yes, you told me that the first time I joked about it.”

“I’m glad I don’t remember it.”

“I’m sure.”

 

* * *

 

 

Making dinner did not turn out to be a grand double effort as John previously thought it might. Mycroft did direct him, asking him to chop this and that, but it wasn’t what he expected. Normally he thought Mycroft to be a control freak that would do all the work himself to avoid the complication of working together.

“Bit early to make dinner,” John muttered as he sliced celery into thin pieces.

“It’ll take a while.” Mycroft had a stern look upon his face as he worked. “You asked about Christopher.”

“I did.” He furrowed his brow and paused, looking back at the man. When there was no reply, he went back to it. “I know the topic must be difficult-“

“Don’t do that, John.” While it was definitely a command, Mycroft’s voice was almost soft. “There’s no need to soften it. These things are what they are and I’m certain that there’s a practically universal understanding that losing people is painful and annoying.”

John sighed and tried not to roll his eyes, even if he couldn’t be seen. Being understanding with this man was like trying to split diamonds with his teeth. “Who was he?”

Silence filled the room but for the sounds of chopping and stirring. For a while John thought it was a mistake to ask at all, but he knew Mycroft was the only person that he could talk to. At the very least, he was abrasive enough to wash away most of the pity. Finally, Mycroft said, “Our brother. The eldest. He died when Sherlock was five and I was twelve.”

“Christ.” John stopped chopping and turned, leaning against the counter. “That’s… I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“I’m not surprised.” There was a surprising bite to his words.

“Well, what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, exasperated.

Mycroft opened his mouth, but seemed to change his mind. “Nothing. Disregard it.”

John stared at the back of the man’s head and didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, it was clearly an insult. On the other… that was the closest thing to an apology Mycroft had ever given him. He let out a frustrated sigh and scrunched his brow. “He sounded ashamed of it. Said he regretted thinking Christopher was ‘anything more than ash’.”

“The blame is mine there.” Mycroft continued stirring and added a little more spice to the broth.

Mycroft was silent for a long while. John couldn’t tell if it was remorse or a resolve to finish the discussion.

He discovered it was the former when the man said, “When doing all you can to protect someone, you can do too much and harm them yourself. People are not meant to function that way. And they seldom understand intent.”


	17. Chapter 17

The topic of Christopher was the end of all discussion in the kitchen. John continued chopping up the vegetables, and once he was done, there was little help he could offer. Mycroft made no protest when he slinked away to the living room and sat on the sofa.

He turned on the telly and tried to pay attention to it for a while, but ended up turning it off a moment later when he realised nothing was worth watching, at least for the moment. Through the window, Greg and Sherlock’s figures shrunk over time. He hoped they were able to enjoy themselves.  

Maybe he should leave for a while. Get a hotel.

John sighed. Sherlock made it clear that wasn’t what he wanted. It was just so hard to sit and watch as time ticked by with no true progress being made.

Being idle was poison to his mind. John stood and took the suitcase from the entry way, rolling it to their bedroom. He nudged the door shut and opened the suitcase on the bed.  

The bag of memorabilia was set aside first – examining its contents would do no good. He started with the shirts and underclothes, pulling them out and walking to the dresser to place them where they belonged. He wished he had something more labour-intensive to do, so that he might not be left with his thoughts. It was just a film reel of fear, worry, and regret, with remake after remake that had little difference in between.

He rolled his eyes to himself and went back to the suitcase, setting aside clothes that needed to be put in the closet. Toiletries were put back, in addition to the book he never got around to reading. In checking the pockets, he found an envelope (which was set aside), as well as…

Lubricant, and a strip of cloth.

Did he never unpack that from the last trip?

John held the bottle in one hand and the cloth in the other, rubbing his thumb along the fabric. It was smooth, and he smiled. He could still hear Sherlock’s desperate voice, the way its pitch became high and almost _feminine_ as he panicked and begged.

Tingles travelled down his spine and he sat, still staring down at the strip.

During that time, he’d felt… He loved him. Perhaps that was obvious, given that he had loved Sherlock for years already, but he did feel it. It was in awe and adoration that he watched those reactions and tried to savour them as much as he could.

Pleasant memories were steadily growing solemn. Sherlock did not remember this, and he felt nothing close to this. The man clearly felt the physical elements, and perhaps a newborn version of intimacy, but nothing of the trust and the care they’d had for quite some time.

It really was like facing a clone.

John clenched his fist at a pitiful thought that threatened to break him. He wouldn’t indulge it, wouldn’t sit here wallowing in the despair that so often wanted to rise up. He sighed and tucked the objects in his night stand, fearing the sight of the drawer they belonged to. It only contained more memories to brood over.

He packed the bag and envelope back into the suitcase, putting them off for a later date. Tucking the rest of the clothes under an arm, John walked to the door and toed it open, the suitcase rolling directly behind him.

 

* * *

 

 

They’d stopped along the curve of the lake. Sherlock and Greg were sitting at the bank, their shoes abandoned so that their feet could be submerged in the water.

If Sherlock had to guess, they’d been gone for about half an hour. He hugged his knees, watching the sun on the horizon. He’d watch it set but the time required might outlast his will. He was hungry. And… tired. Even if he could still laugh and joke, there were so many moments where he felt like the proper thing to do was lock himself in a room.

“What’s on your mind?” Greg asked, his dark eyes soft in their gaze.

It almost seemed wrong to see concern on Greg’s face, but he couldn’t say why. Sherlock shook his head and shrugged. “Talking won’t help,” he mumbled.

“Okay.”

Sherlock swallowed miserably and held back a grim laugh. He’d never experienced such immediate acceptance before. “Thank you.” He took a long breath and settled his chin between his knees.

“No need.”

He hummed. “Normally people push. Apparently talking is the solution to all problems, except the fact that if there was a solution to the problem, I would take the steps to reach it instead of moping around, and then there’d be no need to talk. The problem is already solved by that point.”

Greg shrugged in agreement. “While that makes sense when you reason through it, not a lot of people work that way. Which is – well, it’s bloody frustrating after being friends with you for so long. Can hardly tolerate the usual way any more.”

“Mm. Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

Sherlock sighed and smiled. No longer did he wonder why he’d become friends with him, though it was sad to know that they didn’t talk often, or as often as normal friends did. “John described you as a ‘background person’. Apparently we respect each other but don’t talk very much.”

The man pursed his lips, preparing to disagree, but sighed. “I guess that’s true. I don’t mind it. We’re busy people.”

“Me, busy?” Sherlock quirked his brow. “This place is about a half hour from London. I’d never take that kind of commute if I worked so often.”

“You say that, but you did.”

“And I don’t understand why.”

“Well…” Greg paused to lick his lip. “My busy isn’t always your busy. You do your own things, I’m sure. Experiments, hobbies. I’m not one hundred percent clear on the details. But when our realms of busy collide, you’re always able to make it to where you need to be.”

“But how do I manage that? If I’m supposed to solve all these interesting cases and save people, isn’t time of the essence? Wouldn’t it be ultimately better if I lived in London? I _do_ like it here, but it makes little sense.”

“You and John lived in London for a while. Years. And yes, it was useful to have you within arm’s grasp, but it took a toll on you eventually. I didn’t even realise it until you told me you were moving.”

Sherlock hummed. “I don’t have a hard time believing that. I just wonder what good I must’ve been if I were so far away from emergencies.”

“Luckily most cases don’t start with emergencies. And hotels are relatively cheap, apparently.”

“Apparently?”

“Don’t know the details. You just mentioned it one time when I asked if you wanted to take my sofa. But – doesn’t surprise me. You seem to know everyone, when it suits you.”

“And yet I only have five contacts in my phone,” Sherlock said. He sighed and started to run his hand through his hair, then frowned when Greg started to go through his pockets. “What are you looking for?”

“Give me a sec.” Greg huffed and turned a bit to rifle through his back pocket, then pulled out a mobile. He held it out and Sherlock took it. “You left this at our house the other day. I thought you might like it back.”

He frowned at the phone and turned it in his hands. It seemed insignificant, just a smart phone with a sturdy case. Sherlock carefully tugged at the case and took it off, then popped off the back of the phone. In the microSD slot there was a card. He took it out and looked at it.

One hundred twenty-eight gigabytes. Why on Earth would he need that much space for a phone? He couldn’t justify it.

Sherlock put the card back in and popped the back of the phone on, then the case. “Do you know why I left it?”

“Figured you forgot. You seemed preoccupied.”

“And I suppose you wouldn’t know why.”

Greg grimaced. “Sorry, lad.”

He waved it off and turned the phone over in his hands once more. “You know something about this phone, though, yes? What might be on it?”

“Work contacts, I’m sure. I could see you wanting to keep a personal phone and a work one.”

“Yes…” he agreed. Sherlock pressed the lock button, but nothing lit up. Upon holding it, the manufacturer’s logo beamed brightly. Then he was asked to put in a password. He didn’t bother asking Greg if he knew what it was. He pocketed the phone and stared back out at the lake, thinking. “Thank you for bringing it to me. Maybe I’ll find something that will help put the pieces together.”

The man bit his lip and narrowed his eyes. “Maybe. Do yourself a favour and don’t get your hopes up too much.”


	18. Chapter 18

They had dinner in front of the telly, a grim and dramatic film playing on a low volume. Each of them were sullen, eating at a slow pace. Rather than the sofa, Sherlock sat alone in a chair, dragging his spoon through his stew.

None of them said anything throughout the meal.

Sherlock stared at the screen as he glided the sponge over a bowl. The glare from the light above made the colours warp and made it harder to decipher what was happening.

His brother checked his watch and tightened his lips for the third time in the past few minutes. Sherlock looked back at the microwave’s clock; it was seven. Mycroft and Greg should be going soon. He turned off the tap and dried his hands on a towel.

“I appreciate you stopping by,” he said, stepping out of the kitchen. “Perhaps I’ll visit you next. It’d be interesting to see how you’re living now.”

John gave a kind smile and turned off the telly. “We could go out for dinner in the city.”

 “We should,” Mycroft said. He looked to Greg. “Could you start the car? I won’t be long.”

Greg nodded and stood, heading toward the entry way. His gaze caught on Sherlock and he paused to say, “See you soon, lad.” He grinned and left.

Sherlock shifted his stance and cast his eyes downward as John and Mycroft uttered a few words to each other and shook hands. He made no comment.

“I’d like to talk to you before I leave, Sherlock,” Mycroft announced in his grave voice. “In your office.”

His brow wrinkled and he weaved through the furniture toward the room. His brother followed, and closed the door gently when they were both in the room.

Low voices seeped from the cracks in the door. Every “s” stood out, but otherwise, nothing could be made out. John took to the kitchen to finish the dishes for Sherlock, and tried not to wonder about what was being said. He finished a bowl by the time the door opened again, and the brothers emerged. Neither of them looked any better than they’d entered.

Mycroft let out a slow breath, gave his surroundings a quick look, then muttered a goodbye before he left.

They were alone again.

The water continued to run, and dishes clinked. Within minutes, these sounds ceased to exist. Sherlock stared at the sofa, his eyes unfocused. He barely seemed to notice anything at all. John let him do this for a while, making no attempts to get his attention.

His throat burned when he finally asked, “Are we sleeping together again tonight?”

“I don’t know,” came the numb response.

John swallowed, but it didn’t make the sensation go away. “Okay.” He turned off the light in the kitchen and walked to their bedroom. His hand rested on the door frame and he looked back. “I love you.”

Sherlock nodded slowly.

 

* * *

 

Light struck his body. John blinked at two-minute intervals, still paralysed and sluggish. He shook his foot and over time it took longer and longer before he remembered to shake it again. He rubbed his face and forced his eyes open once more, determined to keep them that way.

His suspicion that he was alone was confirmed when he rolled over. A sheet of paper rested on the pillow and he reached out for it.

 

_Trying to enter your life like I’d never left was foolish. Not only was it foolish, but it was pathetic, it was ridiculous, and it wasn’t at all realistic._

_Most importantly, it wasn’t fair._

_I don’t enjoy hurting people. I suspect you know this. However, despite knowing that this will cause pain on both sides, I must commit to this decision._

_If we continued like this, circling around each other like adolescents trying to love each other because that’s what they think they’re supposed to do, it’ll destroy it forever. There won’t be any coming back from it, because it would start with a lie._

_The lie? That I have anything to love about you. That you can continue loving someone who is effectively a stranger to you now._

_I’ve already done damage in convincing myself I should love you and making decisions based on that, but given time, maybe it’ll fade. All I know is if I kept on with that, the chances of exiting this situation with a healthy relationship would plummet. If I am to have a relationship with you at all, by god and sunny Jesus, it’ll be a healthy one._

_I can’t let you love me, John. Not like this. Not trying to pick things up like nothing’s changed. And you weren’t trying that, but the knowledge that there’s so much I’m missing, so much you’ve got ahead on me and I can’t make it up - it’s too much and it’s not fair to either of us. I don’t want you to look at me like I’m killing you._

_It pains me to do this, but everything between us would only mend awkward and unbalanced, and it would never feel quite the same. I would always be a stranger to you in some form or another. We both need time.  
_

_I keep typing out more words to procrastinate, so I’m going to stop now._

_Goodbye, John._

_I’m sorry._


	19. Chapter 19

Mycroft reached out to shake the man’s hand and suppressed a grimace when it was cold. “Thank you for coming in, you’ve been most helpful,” he said with a smile. The man gave a kind goodbye and left the office, careful not to slam the heavy door as he shut it behind him.

He pulled open a desk drawer and retrieved a bottle of hand sanitizer, squirting a generous amount from it before he put it back. He rubbed his hands together and crinkled his nose at the sharp smell.

The notification light on his mobile blinked. Mycroft reached out to unlock it and found that he’d missed seven calls. With a lick of his lip, he picked it up and looked at the contact, then returned the call immediately. It rang once before it was answered.

“What did you say to him?” John’s voice wavered and every few breaths were accompanied with a sniff.

Mycroft sat back, his expression hardening. “You’re referring to the words I had with my brother last night. Yes?”

“Playing dim is _really_ not in your best interests,” snarled the doctor. “Just tell me what you said.”

“The conversation was private for a reason, John. I’m not at liberty to divulge the details. Why do you ask?”

The other end was silent. Mycroft pulled the mobile from his ear and looked at the screen; the call was still active. He held it up again and tapped his foot. “John-“

“He’s gone,” John whispered. “Left. Don’t know when. He only took a few pairs of clothes and his wallet. All I know was he was fine until you talked to him.”

His mouth ran dry. Mycroft took a gulp of his water and got up, taking a few steps to the window. “I assure you this surprises me as much as it does you. I made no suggestion that he should leave.”

A shaky sigh sounded out. “Tell me you’re not lying to me, Mycroft. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I swear to God if you are, I’ll string you up by your own bloody intestines.”

“You have my word. Sherlock leaving in his condition is a recipe for disaster. I’ll arrange for him to be found. Go to Lestrade’s office, he’ll provide whatever resources he can.”

“All right,” John breathed. “Call me if you find anything.”

 

* * *

 

INCORRECT PASSWORD

The message appeared again and he growled, tossing the mobile on the bed. There had to be something somewhere, locked away in his brain, that could tell him what it was. He sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands.

The room smelled of lemon wipes, detergent, and dust. The last scent was due to the recent vacuuming, as was evident by the markings in the carpet. From the window, an oddly yellow-tinted light streamed through. Though it was far from glamorous, it would suffice.

He huffed and lay back, the mattress causing him to bounce. Sherlock felt for the mobile and held it above his face, then unlocked it once more.

ENTER PASSWORD

He’d already come to the conclusion that he wasn’t stupid enough to make it something personal. Anniversaries, loved ones’ birthdays, and holidays were all out, as well as any important words. This left too many random combinations. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. There had to be something. This was his work phone, he used it constantly. It had to be convenient in length and easy to remember, but not easy to guess.

peppermint1225

INCORRECT PASSWORD

30041945

INCORRECT PASSWORD

07061954

INCORRECT PASSWORD

23061912

INCORRECT PASSWORD

Sherlock closed his eyes again and set his mobile on his chest. It was quite possible that he would never be able to come up with the password. This notion made his stomach quiver.

No, there had to be. He sat up and held the mobile between his hands as if he were praying. If it took much longer, he might resort to that. 

 

* * *

 

“Shit.”

John grimaced down at his lap before giving a shrug. “That... that sums it up pretty well.” His voice wavered weakly. “He didn’t say anything to you?”

Greg shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing that hinted towards him leaving. He was mostly quiet, seemed to be thinking pretty hard, but given the situation, that was perfectly acceptable. What time did he leave?”

“Sometime after I went to bed and before I woke up. He left me a note that said he was leaving. I don’t know if there’s anything we can do, legally speaking. He’s an adult.” John swallowed. “One that’s believed to be brain damaged, roaming the UK with no money, no way for us to contact him, and very limited memory on who he can trust.” His voice cracked, and Greg looked at him with softened eyes.

“I hope you took this to Mycroft first.”

He nodded. “He told me to take it to you too.”

Greg sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. “I’ll have some of the lads look out for someone matching his description. Plenty of them should recognise him on sight, too...” He trailed off, with a significant “but” held back.

“Thank you. I know there’s not much that you can do compared to Mycroft, but some eyes out there really would help. I just hope we find him.”

“So do I.”

* * *

 

INCORRECT PASSWORD

A deep breath.

Sherlock set down the mobile again and stood up, taking his leather jacket off the desk before leaving the room. He felt the key in his pocket to reassure himself, and headed for the stairwell.

It wasn’t as busy here as it was in London. The cars passed by at a reasonable pace and the people seemed unhurried as they walked along the sides of the road. Sherlock weaved between them with forced smiles to everyone who noticed him, and some of them smiled back. Eventually he didn’t have to force it; it just came naturally.

This was the appeal of being out of London.

He headed to the nearest convenience store for some supplies. Inside, he filled a basket with soap, shampoo, and other toiletries. He hadn’t spent that much time in the bedroom while John was sleeping, for fear of waking him.

His face fell at the reminder and shook it off. He made his decision.

He also stocked up on pants and socks before bringing the basket up to the clerk. “How’s your day faring?” he asked.

Her eyes widened and she took on a warm smile. “Not the best, but I can’t complain.”

“Well you could, but-“

She laughed and bagged up the clothes. “Definitely, but I try to save it for the _really_ bad days. Your total’s eleven-fifty-two.”

Sherlock retrieved his wallet from his pocket and started thumbing through his notes. “Here you are,” he said as he handed her the money. “Well, for your sake, I hope there’ll be very little cause for complaint.”

“You too”, the woman beamed. She waited for the receipted to print and handed it to him, along with his bag. “Have a nice day.”

“You do the same.” He walked out and started back on his way to the hotel. His smile was bittersweet.

 

* * *

 

“I want the video of that transaction immediately, send it to me.” Mycroft slammed the phone down and stood from his seat, his hand on the back of his neck as he paced.

“What was that?” John asked. “Did you find him?”

Mycroft gave a shake of his head. “We don’t have him, but there’s surveillance footage of him taking money out at a bank in London. A couple of hours ago – probably useless, but all we have.”

John lowered his head. Of course. He should’ve expected it by now. They’d been searching for hours, listening to every little description from random people on the street, following every single glimpse of a lead. None of it got them anywhere. A tall brunette man in Great Britain, how hard could it  _possibly_ be? Of course many people would be able to pick out Sherlock Holmes in a crowd, but it’d yet to do them any favours.

A tone from the laptop’s speaker had Mycroft sitting back at his desk, clicking several times. His eyes narrowed as he peered at his screen, scrutinizing it. After a moment, he waved John to come around the desk.

John peered over the man’s shoulder as a video was restarted.

The camera was located just across the street from a row of machines. A few people were making transactions, and then a hooded man approached one and started to punch in information. Other people came and went as he went through with the process over and over again, taking out a thick stack of pounds at a time. At one point, a larger man approached him, saying something unintelligible. The hooded figure rustled with his jacket.

The view was obscured, but the large man ran off.

The video cut off shortly after the hooded figure left the machine.

“He has a gun with him,” Mycroft said. “Did you notice one missing?”

John shook his head. “He couldn’t have bought one in that time. Which means either he stole it...”

“Or he was hiding one for quite some time.”

John took in a shaky breath and made his way back to his chair. He clasped his hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “There’s no reason he should have done that. I don’t understand.”

Mycroft closed his laptop and leaned forward with a sigh. “Or he had one stored somewhere else that he was able to access. A safety deposit box or a safe. You do have one of those, yes?”

He nodded. “I didn’t think to look there.”

“What else is in it?”

“Some important documents for the house, birth certificates, things like that. Some ammunition along with a gun. I’ll check when I go home.”

“You should start heading back now, John.” Mycroft looked around his office and scratched at his hair. “I’ll continue working on it. Look at his computer, the safe – uproot the house if you must. Something has to give us more of an idea as to where he’s gone. I’ll be there at six.”

John tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair for a moment. “I... Yeah. I’ll get on it. Thank you, Mycroft,” he mumbled. He gathered his things and left.


	20. Chapter 20

He tossed the bag onto the bed once he got in, and closed the door behind him. Sherlock sat down and stared at the window. He listened to his own breath; it was shaky with every inhale.

Being alone shouldn’t have been this eerie. Originally he imagined it would be peaceful, that he would be alone with his thoughts and be able to actually think. Only now did it become clear that John wasn’t the cause of his reeling mind.

Sherlock took in another breath and lay back on the bed, reaching out for the phone again. Frustration rose up at the sight of it, but giving up wasn’t an option. He turned on the screen, then sighed.

Maybe he’d wait a little longer.

After a few minutes of lying on the bed, his mind still and quiet, he opened the drawer to his nightstand and pulled out a book: the Bible. Not his idea of entertaining literature, but it was hardly the worst.

 

* * *

 

It was with resignation and helplessness that John left for home again. Knowing that something is right and following it are two very different things. He didn’t often struggle with that, but then again, he didn’t often care this much.

He gripped the wheel and the engine revved louder, then quieted. John took slow breaths.

How could Sherlock do this again?

No, that wasn’t right. This wasn’t the same man, but... wasn’t it? People change with their decisions, yes, but a lot of it is inherent. A kind child is most often a kind adult. What sort of child was Sherlock? He never thought to ask.

It didn’t matter now. Sherlock had gone and left, leaving no way to contact him, to convince him out of this stupid decision. And of course that was intentional, because on top of being a stubborn arse, he was also wise, and he knew a lot about how people acted in certain situations. The only way to get him back now was either to track him down or to have Sherlock come back after the regret set in.

At least there was no argument there – Sherlock _would_ regret this. He cared too strongly not to, even if he didn’t know why.

_The lie? That I have anything to love about you._

His chest stung and he growled at himself. The mind is a sadistic thing.

If he wanted to get to Sherlock, he needed to stop thinking about that damned letter.

John didn’t look at the front lawn as he passed through to the front door. Even before this, it was difficult to look at it – but the feeling was different now. Instead of avoiding eye contact with his favourite chair because Sherlock had nearly broken it the last time he sat...

His cheerless chuckle echoed in the house. John set down his keys and tossed his jacket on the counter. He leaned against it and surveyed their home.

He looked upon it, and he didn’t see the seats and tables and electronics; he saw the cool tile floors and the tall windows and bare walls. He heard echoes and smelled cleaner and paint. People working on the foundations, putting up the bare wooden bones, drilling nails and installing baseboards.

He stepped on the heel of his shoe and tugged his foot out of it, then did the same to the other shoe. Cotton socks brushed against the floors as he walked to the bedroom. John pulled one of the blankets off of the bed and draped it over his shoulders. He sat down in front of the window and looked upon the lake.

He did this for three hours.

_  
_

* * *

 

 _And I John saw these things, and heard_ them. _And when I had heard and seen, I fell down to worship before the feet of the angel which shewed me these things._

 _Then saith he unto me, See_ thou do it _not: for I am thy fellowservant, and of thy brethren the prophets, and of them which keep the sayings of this book: worship God._

_And he saith unto me, Seal not the sayings of the prophecy of this book: for the time is at hand._

_He that is unjust, let him be unjust still: and he which is filthy, let him be filthy still: and he that is righteous, let him be righteous still: and he that is holy, let him be holy still._

_And, behold, I come quickly; and my reward_ is _with me, to give every man according as his work shall be._

_I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last._

His eyes ran over one verse in particular many times, and a whisper played from his lips: “Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers...”

He picked up the mobile one more time.

ENTER PASSWORD

“Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still.”

WIULHBUS

A new screen emerged: several icons laid out on a black background. Sherlock sat up and lay the book aside, peering upon the screen.

He started with the list of contacts. They were categorised into five groups:

 

Auth.

H. Network

LR

OD

Tabs

 

“Auth.” was comprised of sub-folders, most with the names of police forces in the UK. Others had three letters that stood for countries. The country folders contained few contacts compared to those of the police forces. He didn’t leave the UK often, it seemed.

The folder “H. Network” contained folders named after cities, which contained folders with what appeared to be people’s names: Deacon, Julia, Garrett, Reyna, etc.

Folders “LR”, “OD”, and “Tabs” all had contacts, without any sub-folders or organisation apparent to him.

Sherlock looked at the details of some of these contacts, and found there was very little information to be gleaned. The idea of knowing this many people was enough to give him a headache.

He started to look through some of his other files and applications. His emails and text messages were by far the most interesting to him. He had ten unread messages.

 

From Molly: _We need to start talking about a permanent home for Atlas. It’s been three weeks and he keeps barking at every little noise._

From Beatrice: _We were able to make Foster reconsider that little hitman contract he arranged, but that’s not all. I’ll send you pictures but I’d really prefer if we could set up a proper debriefing._

_Forgive me for prying, sir, but it’s almost been three days. Is everything all right?_

From Billy: _Package was picked up. I’m at the usual place if I’m needed. Thanks for the advice._

From Deacon: _Waters are calm, as per usual. Sure that there’ll be a body turning up here, Boss, or did you just cook this up to keep me busy? I told you I was healing all right._

_Been a week. Still nothing._

_Nothing. Have an appointment tomorrow for the stitches._

_Doctor said everything was healing nicely. Can I get off this damn bridge now?_

_Finally found what the hell you were talking about. Two weeks. I’d say if you could predict that, why the hell couldn’t you just save the bird, but... She looked a month dead. Almost lost my lunch dialling the police. Sorry for doubting you, Boss._

_New assignment?_

The latest text from Deacon was sent only three hours ago. Sherlock turned the mobile over in his hands. He’d need to do a more thorough examination of its contents, but he was more concerned with all these people he kept in contact with. It seemed he was burrowed more deeply in the criminal realm than he thought. He could only imagine what pictures he had on this thing.

People were starting to wonder where he was. Why he was silent.

Sherlock took in a breath and started typing out a text to Deacon.

 

Where are you currently located? –SH

To his surprise, the reply came within the same minute.

_My place in London. Got something for me, Boss?_

He worried his lip and cracked his knuckles, staring at the window. If he continued, it’d be difficult to turn back. He didn’t even know if he could trust this man, though it seemed he trusted him before. Sherlock looked up a map and attempted to trace a halfway point between himself and Deacon. If it turned out the man couldn’t be trusted, he wouldn’t be giving away where he was staying.

In Ipswitch, The Aurora Bar and Restaurant along the Neptune Marina. If you’re not otherwise occupied tonight, meet me in front at 6. Agreeable? –SH

_Yes, sir. I’ll be there._

Appreciated. –SH

 

* * *

 

“I was under the impression you were going to search the house.”

Mycroft’s looming figure reflected in the window, disappointment clear in his features. It was not the only expression there, but whatever the rest was, it was indecipherable. John blew a breath out his nose and shrugged, hugging his knee closer. “I meant to. Lost track of time. I know it’s irresponsible of me, I just...”

“These are hard times.” Mycroft’s hands rested in his pockets and he bit his cheek, giving a little shake of his head. “Come along, John. Let us see what we can unearth.” He reached out a pale, callused hand.

John took it and both the men grunted as he pulled himself up. “Any news?”

“None so far. Little activity in London and surrounding cities.”

“I expected that,” he said with a sigh. John looked around and rubbed at his stubbly jaw. “I’ll go through this room, and the safe. Can you go through his office? Your experience with Sherlock’s secrets surpasses mine.”

For a brief moment, Mycroft smiled. “Yes, of course.” He left the room without another word.

The next half hour consisted of John pulling open drawers and looking beneath furniture. This search gleaned no new information. Instead of sitting down and sighing to himself, as he was so tempted, he moved on to their closet. Very little in the way of clothes were missing. One of Sherlock’s first moves would be to purchase new clothes. He may have done that already.

John strained to reach up to the top of the shelves, his fingers grazing against the handle of the safe. He pulled it down and brought the safe out to the kitchen. The smallest key on his chain opened it.

He thumbed through the stack of documents, grimacing. The only ones that remained pertained to John and the house. He expected it, but it did nothing to lessen the blow. John set the papers aside and brought out a small gun case. The word “Browning” was impressed in the plastic, along with the logo.

No shocked expression played on his face as he opened it. The case was empty.

He stroked the spongy innards. The gun that usually resided here wasn’t the one that came with the case. It originally carried Sherlock’s L9A1, a gun he treasured a lot more than the average man might. Though he misused it often, the detective took great care of it.

Sherlock would clear off his side of the table every month and take it apart, laying out the pieces on a towel. He often said nothing, or when he did speak, it was usually to ask for a rag to wipe his hands on.

When asked why he had this routine, the detective said, “A man who has any love of life would be wise to have love for his weapons.”

It was only when the gun was destroyed that John learned Sherlock was not the original owner.

 

* * *

 

The building was already engulfed in flames when they entered. Sherlock bade John to stay behind, but the command went ignored. The detective weaved between tables and chairs crackling in flame, his scarf fixed over his nose and mouth. He followed after a panicky silhouette that dodged and scurried through the building. It belonged to a man named Patrick Endel, a particularly vicious serial killer with a victim count of at least eleven.

Sherlock closed in on the man while he pounded and pushed at a heavy metal door. He took aim and squeezed the trigger. It dented the door, and the second floor collapsed in front of Sherlock the moment after. A filing cabinet tipped down and caught him in the right shoulder. He fell to the floor and the gun went skittering across the tile.

John pulled him up and started to run, keeping a tight grip on his hand. Halfway onto their path to safety, a loud series of distinctive cracks sounded out. Sherlock gripped at his left arse cheek with his free hand. His suppressed hiss of pain was drowned out by the crackling fire around them. He limped with John out of the building and across the street.

His hand was clasped onto his slacks as he slumped to the ground, blood flowing and dripping from his hand. Sherlock’s thunderous laughter could be heard a block away.

“Are you all right?” John pushed at his side to turn him. “Is that a – that’s a bullet wound. Fantastic, keep pressing on it,” he muttered as he took out his phone.

“Don’t bother with that, John,” Sherlock hissed. He pressed his hand against his arse and rolled to sit on it, and more laughter erupted from him. “Say – how good of a surgeon are you, now? Keep any of those skills?”

“You want me to dig a bullet out of your arse?” He dialled a number and held it to his ear.

“It’d _certainly_ be lovely of you.” The man groaned and watched a fire truck pull up. Men burst from the vehicle and rushed to get to work. “Just don’t–“

“Hi, I need an ambulance to Lexington Road, between Southmark Street and Mill Street–“

“John, my arse is not an emergency!” shouted Sherlock, snatching the mobile from him. “Disregard that, everything’s fine. Good night.” He hung up and scowled at him. “Just get me to a bloody hospital, you worrywart.” Sherlock shoved the phone back to John, who conceded and called a cab.

John’s hand was almost broken by the time they were out of surgery. Sherlock insisted not to be medicated for the process, though John was lost as to why.

Sherlock’s face was scrunched up and he gritted his teeth as throbbing pain was poked and prodded at with instruments. He did not shout or scream as much as he laughed and grunted. A few minutes in, John offered a gloved hand, and he took it with an indignant huff.

“We could have been doing this in the comfort of our flat, if it weren’t for your worrying,” he said, followed by a groan. “Then it’d be your sausage fingers pressing into my arse cheek, and I can only imagine the things I’d say to–“ He interrupted himself with shaky laughter.

John winced as Sherlock gripped harder. “Yeah, I imagine there’d be no end to your abuse.”

“Oh, certainly. ‘I know it’s hard for you, but I’ll need for you not to get distracted down there.’”

“Or ‘Yes, yes, I know it’s gorgeous, hurry up.’”

He grinned and curled his toes at a new, sharp pain. “Not so gorgeous anymore.”

“They say ladies love a good scar.”

“Shame that doesn’t matter, then.” Sherlock squeezed his hand harder, then loosened his grip a bit more. “Do you think men have that attraction?”

John raised his brow. “To scars? Probably, yeah. But probably on other men more so than women. I suppose scars make men seem more masculine and ‘tough’. Though that doesn’t matter either, does it?”

“Of course, just curious. And distracting myself.”

The remainder of surgery was spent going back and forth trying to come up with the best puns and jokes for the new hole in Sherlock’s arse. Most of them were terrible, but they got a few good chuckles out of the doctors present. Sherlock was given an antibiotic and a prescription for what was essentially beefed-up over-the-counter medicine.

“I’d say I wish I’d picked up the gun, but it would’ve just torn up my hand and most likely killed me,” Sherlock said on the cab ride home.

John smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

He watched the streetlamps pass them by, and his jovial mood seemed to fade. “Death is too merciful for a man like him. And he _is_ likely dead, given how he was struggling with that door. We’ll find out when they sift through the ashes. I might even be able to retrieve my gun, or at least its destroyed remains. No doubt it’s shot to hell now.”

“Sorry. I know it was your favourite.”

Sherlock gave a shrug. “Just a gun.”

“Sure, but you treated it better than anything else you own.”

He chuckled. “You watch me more closely than I’m aware, evidently.” Sherlock looked down to his hands. His left still had faint scarlet smears on his palm. “That gun was not always mine. It was bequeathed to me some years ago when a friend of mine died. I was exceedingly grateful for it.”

John gazed at him for a while. The detective had a sober look about him, the likes of which he’d seen on rare occasions. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he spoke, his voice just above a whisper. “I didn’t know you had... friends.”

Both of the men were silent for a moment, then broke out chuckling.

“Sorry, that sounded better in my head–“

“No, I understand,” Sherlock reassured. “I know I don’t give off the impression that I’m gregarious. I prefer it that way.”

“Why?”

“When I take an interest in someone, there’s no illusion of false friendship. I like to be taken seriously. I don’t flatter – not outside of cases, anyway.” He nibbled on his cheek in thought. “In any case, perhaps we weren’t the closest of friends. He was still a good man and worthy of respect. The world needs more like him.”

 

* * *

 

The new gun was a Browning Hi-Power Mark III. Sherlock tried to clean it as often as its predecessor, or at least he used to. John set the gun case aside with a sigh.

“Find anything yet?” he called, walking towards the office.

“Nothing of importance. The security on this isn’t impressive. I imagine if he had anything to hide, he wouldn’t put it here.”

He leaned against the doorway. “We must be able to find _something._ If not in here, maybe in his study? Or perhaps with someone he trusts. Though I don’t know who that is right now.”

“Our parents,” Mycroft suggested with a furrowed brow. He turned from the desk and sat back. “Old friends, if he remembers any – a list is being made right now. I’ve sent people to some of his old haunts. They’ll let me know if he arrives.”

John spoke after a moment of silence. “He was upset about Christopher yesterday. Do you think it’s possible he went to visit him? Wherever he’s buried?”

The man shook his head. “Christopher was cremated and his ashes were scattered. There _is_ a headstone, but given that the plot was never dug, it’s hard to believe it would hold any special meaning to him. Not enough to risk being found.”

“Shit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, hard enough for it to hurt. “Any other ideas?”

“None so far. I assume he said nothing to you about this.”

“Not in person.” John swallowed. “He left a note for me. The gist of it was that he was leaving.”

Mycroft’s expression darkened. “I could have known this. Retrieve it.”

“Mycroft, it’s personal. I don’t want–“

“There is no ‘personal’ in this. Every shred of information is vital. _Retrieve it._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good ol' Johnny Cash. The song is "The Man Comes Around", if you were wondering.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's officially a month and a day past a one-year anniversary since this work started! I never imagined that would happen. I'd just like to say thank you to everyone who's been here from the beginning, as well as all the lovely folks that joined along the way. This entire adventure into self-inflicted misery has been utterly wonderful with you guys, and we're not even done yet!

The Holmes brothers’s fear of vulnerability was understandable if it always felt like it did now. John pretended to be fascinated with the floor as Mycroft read the note Sherlock left. A sick lightness filled his stomach and his heart thumped away in his ears. His legs were jelly.

Mycroft drew his phone from his pocket, touched the screen a few times, then held it to his ear. His distant, unfocused stare was all John could watch. He never would’ve guessed the words that came out of the man’s mouth next.

“Cease the search for Sherlock Holmes. Send someone to carry the message to Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Debriefing at six.” He ended the call and brought his empty eyes to John. “I suggest that you take some time off of work.”

His breath shook and wavered. His fist clenched until his knuckles grew white. The room fell off of its steady anchor, tilting and shaking all around him. John reached to grip the desk and leaned to stabilise the world that went rickety.

Then John just laughed, realisation falling upon him. “Right. Of course. I was a bloody idiot to think that you’d actually help when it came down to it being me or him.”

A mirthless laugh left Mycroft. “Taking sides is not a luxury I have, John. The first part of progress is learning from your mistakes.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” John barked back. The other man flinched with a subtlety that made it almost invisible.

Mycroft squared his shoulders. His next words were spoken with a proud smirk. “My brother is an obstinate creature. I pushed and pressed for years and seldom obtained the desired results. He will return, or he will not. It would be foolish of us to think we can influence his decision.” His thick fingers curled around his tie to adjust it, and then moved to leave the room, pausing only for one moment more. “Follow the civilian way for once,” he said, solemn amusement in his voice, “and have a little faith.”

Footsteps echoed through the house and silenced upon the closing of a door.

 

* * *

 

Water rippled and reflected the darkening sky above. Boats wavered and sloshed. And though the water was calm and the air was quiet, Sherlock’s heart thudded out a threatened beat in his ears.

It was a foolish, foolish thing to do. He didn’t have any reason to trust this man. He didn’t even know that he _did_ trust this man, just a few days ago. All he knew was that Deacon had a modicum of respect, tossing “boss” and “sir” out in every sentence like he was afraid of neglecting to acknowledge his supposed superior. And that was another thing – what on earth had he done to earn such timid loyalty?

Any answers to these questions were interrupted by a deep voice. “Sir?”

Sherlock turned and looked up. Beside him was a burly man, towering over him. He braced his hands on the wood beneath him and came to his feet. Once standing, the height difference was negligible. “Deacon, yes,” he muttered, his eyes flicking over the man.

Here was a man of confident stature and undeniable discipline, with marred and callused hands that he held at his sides. Sherlock reached out to shake his hand and was struck with a firm grip, which he returned. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me here.”

“Not a problem, sir. I was glad to get moving again after being stationary for so long.” The man went quiet, then spoke, “Is there something wrong? Normally we don’t meet like this. Or at all, for that matter.”

He sucked in a breath, raising his hand to rub at the back of his neck. “You might say that, yes. There’s a great many things I have to ask. The questions may seem ridiculous or moronic, but... please indulge me regardless.”

They began to walk along the marina, around a corner to a bench. There Deacon and Sherlock sat, the former with a concerned look upon his face.

 

* * *

 

If some people are encyclopaedias on certain subjects, Deacon was a library on the business of Sherlock Holmes. Though he was initially confused, Sherlock’s explanation of his current predicament made way for a massive dump of information.

His previous self made a point to be a man who could only be described as a spymaster. Truly, it was the only word Sherlock could conceive as he heard of the breadth of his connections, and the work that he set forth with these contacts.

Deacon spoke of something called the “Homeless Network”, an organisation of people with the trait of being able to blend into almost every environment in which they stood. They had the ability to move about a city and be unseen by its citizens, collecting invaluable information as they went. Such information often went to waste, either falling on deaf ears or lost to despondency. In the end, all they needed was organization.

Sherlock had fulfilled the role of a director, collecting contacts and connecting them. Eventually this series of connections formed an association. According to Deacon, this network was independent of him a majority of the time. Each member worked according to interests that assisted their allies – or at least ones that did nothing to deter or harm them. When he called upon them, however, they rallied to assist however best they could.

In return for such loyalty, he paid them or completed favours. He’d happily lost many a member to the throes of corporate life, while others seemed content to live as they were: surviving and working, surrounded by people they considered family.

There were a few selected “commanders” of this network, people who passed down information and took care of their charges – and acted as commanders in times of dire need. Deacon was unique in this sense, as he did not have any charges and he lived in a flat. He was often responsible for spreading information amongst other members and recruiting new ones.

He mentioned a few other notable people:

 - Julia, a woman who made it her duty to take care of new members and focused mostly on morale and comfort.  
 - Garrett, a man who had surprisingly extensive knowledge on weapons, guns in particular. He trained members in hand-to-hand combat and self defence.   
 - Reyna, who leaded the most mobile domestic unit and was quite gifted in stealth.  
 - Beatrice, who was the head of the “international unit”, which was not so much a singular body, but several groups which resided in many of the countries which neighboured Great Britain.

It was about ten in the evening when Sherlock ran out of questions, his head swimming with a jumble of improbable information. He thanked Deacon and offered to pay him enough to cover a meal, but the man refused with a gleeful smile.

He made it back to the hotel and barely had the energy to get into bed.

 

* * *

 

John attended the appointment without Sherlock. While he waited in the reception room, everything had him ready to jump out of his seat. Every low timbre, every pace of footsteps down the hall – it was all Sherlock, to his mind. After the fourth time peering down the hallway, he took a deep breath and slumped back down into his seat.

Sherlock should’ve been there. If for nothing else, John should’ve seen him there, anxious to learn of what was going on in his head.

He never did show up. A nurse opened a door and called Sherlock’s name, and John stood. He followed her into one of the patient’s rooms and sat down into another chair. It was the same deceptive ones in the reception: padded, but rigid and uncomfortable.

Time trickled by. By the time the door opened again, it’d felt to be an hour.

Doctor Simmons entered from the hallway, smiling at John before her eyes caught on the patient table. She pursed her lips and looked to the floor for a moment before making eye contact with him again. “Where is he?” she asked. Her voice was soft, heavy.

He was only able to enjoy her hesitancy for a moment. “Things grew a bit difficult... he left a couple days ago. I thought he’d make it to the appointment, but apparently not.”

Relief flashed across her features, thought it was short-lived. She pulled up a swivel chair and looked down at her clipboard. A manila folder was secured onto it. “I’m afraid the appointment will have to be rather short, then.”

“Right,” he said, sighing. “I’m not going to put you in a difficult spot. Can you tell me if he’s all right?”

Doctor Simmons smiled and nodded, her tied-back hair bobbing on the back of her head. “He is. It’s... perplexing, but he’s not in any danger as far as the scan can tell us.”

John nodded slowly, then looked down to his hands, clasped between his knees. A weight had been lifted from him, but he was not entirely without burden. The news only raised further questions, which he refused to speak aloud.

“Right. Thank you. It’s really great to hear,” he spoke with a tight voice.

 

* * *

 

Avoiding thoughts is a good way to make them stick in your brain for much longer than they should. For John, these thoughts were vicious and large in number.

What was it about Sherlock Holmes that made abandonment something John had to suffer? And it wasn’t just the once, no, he had to get it in a few times just to _really_ brand the ache into his chest.

John growled as he chucked another hefty rock into the lake. It smacked the water and sunk to the bottom, leaving wide ripples in its wake.

His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles beneath them. He’d eaten just an hour ago and he was starving all the same. With every moment he didn’t spend tossing those rocks from the river bank, he felt as if he were wavering, a moment from collapsing – yet hours in bed hadn’t blessed him with sleep.

After another furious throw, his face fell and he sat down, grass prickling between his toes.

It had been five days since Sherlock left.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait. Honestly, I'm super disappointed in myself, but I know flagellating myself here isn't going to change the fact that I let things slip so badly. I'm sorry, I'll post way more often, that's about it. 
> 
> On a lighter note, the pacing is going to pick up a little. It'll get boring quickly if I drag you through every single day. As always, critique is appreciated. It's been a while since I've written.

After a few days of staying at one hotel, he moved on to another in Colchester. His surroundings were just the same: two beds, crisp white sheets, and a vague impression of cleanliness. Sherlock settled into the room and sat at the small desk adjacent to the windows. He’d received no contact from his brother, or any other undesirable people. After a point his phone was attacked by a barrage of concerned texts from his homeless contacts, and he was forced to reply to soothe them. Deacon had already described in great detail their methods of tracking people down. How many of these people had he already seen in his peripheral vision, while only walking down a street?

This was too much. It was one thing to have an interesting life, but it was entirely another to have such a massive, ever-expanding web without having an inkling of where it started and where it ended.

How did John fit in? Surely he didn’t know this phone existed, or he would have contacted it already. Or perhaps he did and didn’t know the number. Which brought up another point: if this phone was on the same plan, John could easily figure it out and he would still be tied to the man. Had he simply not figured it out?

Either way it became clear that this phone also needed to go. Sherlock left the hotel room with a quiet sigh and made way for the nearest shop.

His eyes darted about his surroundings as he walked. Every man and woman in shaggy clothing made him wonder if they would greet him like an old friend if he just stopped to say hello. How can any of those people feel allegiance to someone who rarely interacted with them? He’d read the texts, and though there were many, he only made contact with a few select people once a day at most. And yet some were counting on him for a next step.

He didn’t know where he was going to be next week, never mind telling a modest militia what to do.

These thoughts swam in his mind as he entered the nearest suitable store and headed to their office supplies section. He collected a few notebooks and pens before heading to the clerk.

The man said hello, and, too deep in thought, Sherlock didn’t reply. He thanked him in a quiet rumble and left the shop in a hurry, his hand already aching at the thought of all the writing he would have to do.

 After copying all the contacts from the phone, along with the occasional relevant note, Sherlock cleared all of the data saved to the SIM card and tossed it in the bin. By all means, let someone else put it in their phone and lead Mycroft on a false trail.

He was already too late, however.

 

* * *

 

The following morning when Sherlock woke, all appeared normal. The window was still cracked from when he opened it the previous night, the curtains were fluttering softly. A few minutes after his eyes first open, something shuffled in the corner to the right of the telly. Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked in the direction of the noise, and his eyes fell upon his brother sitting in the armchair. He glowered and moved to sit up, not speaking. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his eyes. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“An hour.” Mycroft locked his phone and tucked it into his pocket. “Do you know why you are here?”

“Mycroft, I’m not coming-“

“I do not ask to be patronising,” the man explained warily. He sat up, bringing his hands to rest on the handle of his umbrella. “Merely asking you to consider it.” After a moment of silence, he gave a little shrug and cast his gaze towards the windows. “I’m not here to drag you back. You would only leave again, and for longer. You’re mule-headed that way.”

Sherlock brought up his knees and rested his elbows upon them. “Do I detect a hint of fondness in your voice?”

His brother flashed a sarcastic smile. “I’m feeling charitable.”

“Why are you here?”

“You ought to know the state of your health while you’re doing… whatever this is. I don’t pretend to understand it.” The truth was that he didn’t want Sherlock to know that he’d been privy to the very personal letter he had sent to John.

His throat tightened. “Oh?”

Mycroft hummed, drumming his fingers on the wooden handle. “You’re a picture of health. The tests revealed nothing wrong.”

There was a statement that eased some concern and racked up more all at once. If it was not a tumour or degradation that caused his mind to be so curiously lost, what was it? What could possibly wreak such havoc within him and all others around him? Sherlock heaved a troubled sigh. “Thank you for informing me. I would not want this to get worse while I’m away.”

“Do you ever intend to return?”

“I don’t know.”

“Consider what I have asked. Do not bring your friends needless grief.” Mycroft stood and made his way to the door, stopping just as his hand came to rest on the handle. “If you make me tell you these things, you may be lost forever. Goodbye, Sherlock.” And he left, unfurling his umbrella as he stepped outside.

His brother had dropped a load of uncertainty that he did not know what to do with. Where to start. He reached over to the notebook on the nightstand and flipped idly through the pages. Perhaps some of these addresses were worth a visit.

 

* * *

 

Though not through a lack of effort, no one was there to notice the changes that overtook John’s fatigued form. Over the course of three weeks, he grew thinner, he existed in a state of perpetual exhaustion. And despite himself, he went to see his therapist. She had nothing to say that he wanted to hear.

The room was dimly lit by the lamp between them. Droplets of rain trickled and smattered along the window, providing some small comfort to the ambience when he went silent. Though she did him the kindness of staring at her notes rather than him, the pressure was there all the same.

Eventually she spoke. “Perhaps you should move on.”

His brow furrowed in indignation. “What?”

“This is the second time that Sherlock has left you like this.”

“It’s not his fault that this happened to him.”

“Of course not. But are you seeing the emerging pattern?” She folded her hands together and crossed a leg over her knee. “You grow happy with him and then something disastrous comes along. He feels he has to be alone to handle these things, at the expense of everyone else. He leaves everyone to pick up the pieces while he deals with it.”

John had no reply. He glanced down at his hands and wrung them, biting at his cheek.

“I don’t mean to suggest he does it maliciously. But after some time, it doesn’t matter whether there’s malice or not. The end result is the same.”

Ella suggested that he move on. That it was all right to miss Sherlock, but a pattern had emerged and was impossible to ignore – surely he had to see it. Sherlock Holmes was not an abuser like such behaviour might imply, but his life was unstable. Unhealthy for a man like John. Though he could never bring himself to agree, she brought a sense of comfort to him the likes of which he had never expected. It wasn’t his fault that he was always the one being left behind. It was just who Sherlock was. He had to be alone.

He took no joy in believing such a terrible thing of the man he loved most in the world.

But he had to stop making excuses for him. And he had to stop waiting like some sad puppy whose master had left to go to work.

No one thing was easy, but he took it a step at a time. John returned to work and relished the activity of listening to someone else’s problems. He began cooking for himself again, lavish meals that he knew Sherlock would have enjoyed were he there; and indulged in some bitter smugness over the thought.

He started getting angry instead of feeling so helpless and lost that he couldn’t get out of bed.


	23. Chapter 23

Now that he was in the knowledge that his brother had no intention to force him home, Sherlock was able to travel freely. He no longer looked over his shoulder every other step, nor hid his face from cameras on street corners. Should anyone recognise him on the streets, he might duck into an alley and lose them with ease.

Despite himself, he did find his mind returning to what Mycroft had asked: why he had left. He was not gone just to escape, for he could have done that without causing others to fret. He had to know who had left his body to host a confused husk, who he had been for the past decade and some change.

These thoughts and a few addresses are what brought him to London. Specifically, a gem setting shop.

Sherlock stood on the kerb of a busy street with cars parked all along each side. He peered down at his notebook and drew his forefinger under the number in the address, mumbling it to himself, then glanced up at the shop to confirm it was the right one – for it was one of three shops on that road with “Gem Setting” plastered on the windows and awning. At confirmation, he shut the notebook and tucked it into his jacket as he stepped inside.

Only one man was working behind the counter. He was mostly bald with bristly little salt-and-pepper hairs along the sides and back of his head. His spectacles sat low on his nose as he eyed a grape-sized carbuncle, turning it underneath his lamplight. Sherlock had sauntered halfway into the shop before the man took notice, glancing between him and the gem he held betwixt his fingers. “Ah, Mr. Holmes. Didn’t recognise you in civilian clothing,” came his gruff voice. “Let me finish up here and I’ll take you on back.”

He replied with a slow nod as he stepped towards the glass counters. A collection of necklaces were poised delicately on the shelves below. “I’m looking for James Gleading. Is that you?” he asked. An anxious feeling told him he should leave now before he complicated his life infinitely more by poking into his past.

The man’s brow lowered over his eyes and he stared up at him, his hands moving to set the gem back onto the velvet cloth spread before him. His lips parted to speak, but it was a good moment before he dared to utter a word. “Well – _yes._ I am. Are you quite all right, Mr. Holmes?”

That look of uncertainty and quiet horror churned something within him. “I’m afraid not,” he replied. “I’ve had trouble remembering a great deal of things as of late.”

The explanation of his lack of familiarity did more to upset the man than to soothe him. “And you haven’t been injured?”

“Nor afflicted by tumours. A medical mystery,” he remarked with a glum smile. “You were in my phone in a folder named ‘LR’, do you know why?”

“I believe so. Come on back.” He folded the velvet over the carbuncle and stored it away in a drawer, locking it with a flick of his wrist. Mr. Gleading stretched his legs to touch his feet to the floor, and once standing, began hobbling over to open a wooden half-door for Sherlock.

Past a single door was the back of the shop. It had a charming smell of mineral dust and cleanser, and its walls were bordered by high shelves filled with labelled plastic containers. Immediately beside them was an age-old wooden desk, worn but well-maintained. It was there that Mr. Gleading shuffled off to sit behind. He reached to open a drawer and pulled out a small lockbox, setting it on the table. “What is it you need? ID card, passport?”

Sherlock frowned and took a seat in a big leather chair across from him. “No – is that what I come to you for?”

“Couldn’t have thought you were a big fan of jewellery, did you?”

“Admittedly I was rendered curious by the name of the establishment.” He folded his hands in his lap. “How long have I been seeing you? How often?”

When the rotund man sat back in his chair, a bulge of skin protruded from underneath his chin. His callused fingers stroked at his stubble. “Eight or nine years now, and you rarely saw me personally. You’re practically a patron of this side business with all the people you recommend here, though.”

He had to hum at that. Not often did people speak favourably of him, but whoever he’d been seemed to make quite a few friends. “When did I last see you?”

“Oh, I’d say… about two months ago. You set up an order for two passports and ID cards, then cancelled over the phone the day we were going to take the pictures. Said you’d changed your mind and didn’t need them after all.” His hand dropped to his lap as a shadow overcame his features. “I’d thought it odd. You were in a hurry when you’d set it up. Seemed nervous.”

“Of course I didn’t say why.” Sherlock muttered.

“Sorry?”

He waved in dismissal. “I know myself that much. It’d be too convenient to leave here with any answers anyhow. Any chance I said anything else?”

Mr. Gleading shook his head. “Just that you might need to leave soon. That was plenty obvious given what you ordered.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock took in a breath and stood. “’LR’?”

“Last Resort.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for your time, Mr. Gleading.”

At the offer of his hand, the man shook heartily. “Of course. Best of luck to you with… whatever has affected you so.”

With a cordial nod, he left the back room and walked out of the shop with a hum of a sigh. Had he thought himself in danger? Why? And why had no one mentioned it to him before?

 

* * *

 

 “John.” The sigh in her words made quite clear her apprehension and disapproval. Ella gestured for him to sit in the chair across from her and, unable to falter in his conviction, John stood even straighter. “We have been through this before, and it has rarely benefitted you.”

“I respect your concern, but no. I’m fine.” A wry smile quirked at his lips as he turned to look out the window. The weather had hardly cleared, trading heavy rain for a dense fog. It would be quite some time until they had a hint of sun again. “You said I ought to let go and you’re probably right. Constantly talking about him is no way to go about that.”

“It’s hardly that easy,” she insisted.

“You’re right. It isn’t easy to just… stop. But it _is_ simple. And it’s what I have to do. Thank you for your help.” Part of him wanted to grumble that she hadn’t helped at all, that she wasn’t any good at her job, that nothing she’d ever done or said had made any of this easier for him. But she wasn’t to blame for his grief. She was just there to pick up the pieces – and he had to be done with that.

John cleared his throat and looked back to her. “Until next time – although probably not.” And with that, he headed out, the rubber end of his cane flattening slightly every time it made contact with the hardwood floor.

 

* * *

 

 While he had close to ten thousand pounds at his disposal, Sherlock had decided that a poorly-maintained room in a motel was all that he could reasonably afford in London. He didn’t know how long he would be gone and it was best to live as a stern miser to make it last as long as he needed. For a brief moment upon returning to the dingy room he wished he’d increased the budget. The walls had a yellow tint and the room had a permanent musk to it. God knew how many people made illicit deals in this room, and for the sake of being able to sleep that night, he deigned not to wonder how many people had died in it.

Sherlock moved to open the windows and struggled with the second. After a few grunts and thrusts of his arms, he forfeited the effort. Upon inspection he found that it’d been painted shut in the last clumsy renovation. He closed his eyes and sunk into a chair before a cheap desk. Once he’d taken a few calming breaths, he retrieved his notebook and flicked on the lamp beside him to pour over its contents. The next person he was to contact was based in America. He checked his watch and did the math: it was almost three in the afternoon here, and barely nine AM in Louisiana. It was late enough that he wouldn’t be considered rude for calling.

The former detective reached out to pick up the phone and began dialling the number on the page. A robotic tone informed him that he would be charged seven pounds extra for an international call and he closed his eyes as the call began ringing out to a gunsmith’s shop.

A rough voice with heavy vocal fry greeted him. “Caldwell. What you want?” The words were meshed together, sounding more like “Whatchu won’t?” under the man’s heavy accent.

Sherlock glanced down at the notebook again and uttered, “Caldwell – Scott Caldwell, correct?”

“That’s me, yeah. Who are you?” Metal shuffled in the background, followed by the distinct noise of a slide racking on a gun.

“Sherlock Holmes. I have reason to believe I was a customer of yours.”

A long pause followed. “You’re more than right, all right. Should’ve recognised you right away – ears are buzzing something fierce today. Why, uh – why ‘believe’? Memory should serve well enough, you’d figure.”

“Yes, well. That’s the problem, I don’t remember much.”

The man paused once more and all background noise ceased. He offered his sympathies and asked a few questions, which Sherlock answered readily although he’d answered them quite a few times by now – and would continue to do so if he was to make it through these contacts. The care would be quite flattering if he knew the man, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? It was after this mild catching up that Sherlock asked, “When was the last time I made contact with you?”

The man began shuffling papers. “I’ve got the records here somewhere… September 13th.” More page-flipping followed. “You reserved two semi-automatic pistols: a Browning Hi-Power Mark I and a SIG-Sauer P229 and picked them up two days later.”

“Two months ago…” he muttered.

“Hm?”

“Did I seem rattled? Rushed?” he asked.

“Well… you could say that, yes. In the past we’ve had a bit of a chat over recommendations, quality… you knew what you wanted and you reserved them without much gabbing. What’s your thinking?”

Sherlock nibbled at his lower lip as he began scribbling down a few notes on a blank paper. “I don’t know yet. Thank you, you’ve been most helpful. Goodbye.” He hung up without further ceremony and sat back.

For some reason he had not confided in anyone this sudden panic. Insofar as they were concerned, all was well.


End file.
